


Bond of the Grey

by etaeternum



Series: Mother of Griffons [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, BAMF Women, Breaking Up & Making Up, Budding Love, Commitment, Desk Sex, Domistair, Duty, F/F, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Grey Warden Bond, Grey Wardens, Headcanon, Healing, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Light BDSM, Loss of Trust, Major Character Injury, Makeup Sex, Multi, Near Death Experiences, Older Man/Younger Woman, Post-Battle, Reconciliation, Rope Bondage, Search for a Cure, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, Strong Female Characters, Tent Sex, The Taint, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-08-12 15:38:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 91,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7939987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etaeternum/pseuds/etaeternum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The second part of Mother of Griffons. You can start here if you want. I try to recap through the fic. Some parts might not make as much sense though.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>"Well-behaved women seldom make history."</i></p><p>Powers change within the Order of the Grey. The healing royal couple struggles with shadows of the past as they navigate responsibilities to their Kingdom and the Grey Wardens. Lieutenant Howe finds himself in a confusing relationship with a younger Warden, conflicting with his commitment to duty.</p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <br/>
    <a href="http://etaeternum.tumblr.com/motherofgriffons">Mother of Griffons</a>
    <br/>
  </p>
  <div class="center">
    <p><br/><img/><br/>Art by <a href="xla-hainex.tumblr.com">xla-hainex</a><br/></p>
  </div>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. Revival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caoilainn recovers from the battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder, Caoilainn can be pronounced a few ways (Kwee- or Kee-lin, Kay-lin). I say it as Kay-linn. And Hale is pronounced like Hailey.

Displaced dirt floated through the air, settling to the ground as the battlefield calmed. Soldiers collected fallen allies, counting casualties as others built pyres. The standing aided the injured, walking back to the supply camp to be healed. Red tinged the creek running through the ravine, meeting up with the larger river ahead. Blood of enemies and allies soaked the ground and dripped into the waterway. Few remaining enemies retreated to the river, only to be taken down by the Inquisitor and her party on their journey to the elven temple. Though the battle proved a victory for the Inquisition, the losses continued to climb.

But Caoilainn lived. The breath of those surrounding the Grand Enchanter while she worked to heal the Warden Commander released in unison, echoing through the gully when Caoilainn’s gasp confirmed her survival.

“Maker!” Alistair yelled, watching Caoilainn emerge from his arms. Starving for air, she lunged forward her fingers grazing her neck as she heaved. “Thank the Maker, Caoilainn. You’re alive.”

It took but a moment for her heaving to mellow, breath caught, quenched by the humid air of the Arbor Wilds. Her palm came to her forehead and slid past her hairline as she observed her surroundings. The dark emptiness that had engulfed her faded away, dissolving. Eyes wide, she reoriented herself with consciousness and the environment.

Body regulated, breathing normalized, and life aligned with memory, she turned to Alistair, resting on her knees. The people surrounding them made space though Fiona stayed nearby to monitor Caoilainn.

Large silvery-blue eyes locked with Alistair's concerned hazel stare. Seconds dragged; her watery gaze, grateful and tired mirroring the energy of the ravine. Her cheeks cooled from the rush of heat flowing through. Alistair’s discomfort, present on his face and lined by worry called her attention.

Her history haunted what should have been a loving reunion. She recalled her shame; Alistair’s anger from the night before replayed in her mind. ' _Ten fucking years, Caoilainn. I’m done trying_.'

She had been doubtful of her worthiness for Alistair, and lured into the convenience and chemistry with her Lieutenant; she had cheated. Ten years of infidelity resulted from her weakness of will, compounded by grief, and magnified by her infertility; she had used Nathaniel as a distraction. But Alistair’s confidence and his persistent devotion to remedy their relationship won over her defenses, breaking down her walls when he found her at Skyhold prior the journey to the Arbor Wilds.

Though she had still questioned her worth, she told Nathaniel of the end of their casual amour in favor of her commitment to Alistair the night before the battle. But Alistair assumed the worst of the conversation and projected years of repressed anger in one short argument, resigning his willingness to continue their marriage.

Determined to have another chance with him, Caoilainn abandoned her post with the Wardens during the battle at the Arbor Wilds that day. In a decisive moment, she made Alistair her priority and put aside her responsibilities as Warden Commander. It resulted in the nearly fatal blow from which she just woke.

Now having been revived, she knelt across from Alistair, wordless. Her brows wrinkled in a plea, begging for forgiveness as her mouth turned to an awkward grin. Caoilainn laughed, lacking any other reasonable response to the strange emotions troubling her. Her simper, a giggle that grew to an inviting chuckle, asking Alistair to agree with the ridiculousness of their situation.

Alistair did not agree. The sound of her laughter he had but moments ago feared he would never hear again now insulted his presumptive grief. Fear and sorrow had led his imagination to the harrowing reality of life without Caoilainn while he waited for her to survive, and now she laughed. Rather than join the humor, his concern grew annoyed and frustrated. A stern face, displeasure expressed by creased brows and a frown though his playful sarcasm carried through his interruption.

“She thinks this is funny,” Alistair’s shook his head and spoke to Fiona before scolding Caoilainn. “Not funny, Caoilainn. What on earth were you thinking? Why would you do that?” He referred to her heroic escapades, jumping in front of an enemy who targeted Alistair. It caused the need for her revival by the Grand Enchanter who sat near them in the ravine.

Provoked by the prospect of Caoilainn’s death, Fiona’s own guilt as an absent mother had produced images of a conversation with her son about loss. She had hoped her words would resonate with him and perhaps he would remember them later. But it had been a vain wish, just a fantasy erased when Caoilainn awoke. 

Fiona simpered and occupied herself with the kit of healing elements at her side, attempting to avoid their tiff.

Caoilainn’s laughter stopped and her emotions drew inward. A proud chin and bunched lips reserved her expression as she replied shortly, “I saved you.”

“Yeah?” He challenged, brows raised. “I can take a beating in a battle, Caoilainn. You know that. That was about something else entirely and you know it.”

“You were outnumbered,” she added, the maintenance of her composure dismissed his accusation.

“Oh? That, of course. Outnumbered. Because that _never_ happens to me.” Desperate for explanations, Alistair’s voice rose; his loving and irritated interrogation continued. “I’m a king now not a delicate flower.”

A decade had passed since they fought side by side during the Blight. After taking the throne, Caoilainn became Commander of the Grey and dedicated herself to rebuilding the Order. Alistair’s responsibilities as Ferelden's King kept him in Denerim.

Silent, stubborn, Caoilainn waited for him to end his line of questions. The teary twinkle in her eye the only clue to the impact of his words.

His arms came to her shoulders. Fraught, he held her, forehead wrinkling with earnest. “Were you trying to prove that you love me?” He asked, and she stared back, her chin nodding an answer ever so slightly. “Damn it, Caoilainn. I know that.”

Tears pooled, but her steady frown and serious stare didn’t falter.

Overwhelmed with aggravation at her lack of response, he bowed his forehead to meet hers. With a long blink, Alistair released a stretched, tired sigh, revisiting all the sad images that bled through his imagination when he thought he lost her. “I would _never_ forgive you if you had….” He looked away. The end of the statement hovered; the word that followed far too real considering the recent possibility of her death.

Caoilainn’s hand rose and met his cheek, her pinky-finger dragging past his jaw, guiding his face to their gaze. “Stop,” she murmured with comfort and compassion. The bob of her head and the widening of her eyes conveyed the intensity of her words. “Alistair, I'm right here. I didn't.” She respected his difficulty with the word ‘die.’

Leaning in, her lips met his. But Alistair did not reciprocate her kiss. He stared back, frowning and surprised by her affection. When she pulled away his arms wrapped around her frame, bringing her in for an embrace. His hand rested on the back of her head; their cheeks touched, and he whispered in her ear. “Don’t do that again.” Head tilted down and brows raised as his eyes tracked the collection of people standing nearby, he informed, “We have more to talk about…but it can wait until we have less company.” He rose from the ground and offered her a hand.

She nodded, tucking her hair behind her ear before grabbing his hand and rising. She stood across from him, luring eye contact from beneath long lashes and reminded, “I love you, Alistair.”

“I know,” he replied with a short-lived grin, avoiding her eyes. Joy hindered by confusion, complex emotions prevented his return of her message.

Her hopeful and apologetic eyes searched him for more, unfamiliar with Alistair's curtness, at least in this context. He gave her another weak smile before the two divided- Alistair back to his advisors and Caoilainn to gather with her army.

* * *

 

Bodies moved to pyres, built and burned in reverence to the dead, observed in silence. The armies marched back to the forward camp through the rest of the day and night. Chattering through their formation, the trip back relaxed but purposeful. The losses, higher than predicted, did not hamper the confidence provided by their victory.

“What's wrong, Lieutenant? You ain’t looking so great.” Hale questioned Nathaniel on their walk back. He had been quiet since the battle, despite the pleasant environment.

Nathaniel's vision of Caoilainn's death brought to light his own shame for their affair, resulting in a complete emotional shutdown. Old patterns found him: avoiding sadness with casual partners and pushing away those who cared. In this case, Hale. He had projected his guilt onto the young woman, considering the parallels of his friendship with Caoilainn and what seemed to be a growing relationship with Hale. The similarities unnerved him.

“I’m fine,” he fell back into the avoidant trait and caught himself. “We’ll talk more later.” Though he lacked the desire to talk about anything, considering how he imagined Hale’s behavior- matching her age, immature and selfish- he couldn’t leave her in the dark.

Talking to Caoilainn would no longer be an option. His gaze wandered to the Warden Commander, riding alone at the head of the Warden army. Many senior Wardens approached her to share their relief of her survival. She smiled and nodded, then resumed her slow trot.

* * *

 

Colors appeared brighter than ever before and perfumed scents of nature filled Caoilainn's nose as if for the first time. The sea of greens surrounded them, delicate vines drooped from boughs, and flowers grew from cracks in trees. A new experience, marching back to the forward camp with a different appreciation for life. Each breath filled her lungs with clean air, nature nourishing her soul, rejuvenating her.

That is until she coughed. A quiet fit to clear her throat, it lasted longer than expected and the itch never seemed to disappear. Between the noise and activity of the march, no one noticed, and it passed. _My body is still healing._ She assumed a reasonable explanation and played off the symptom though she rode with less vigor.

Other things occupied her mind. Alistair’s distance. It was unusual, unlike him to withhold affection, to not reciprocate an ‘I love you.’ She feared his commitment to the decision at the end of their argument the night before. Daring feats had not been enough to prove her love and devotion. _We’ll work this out_. She reminded herself. Of course, their resolution wouldn’t be simple, she had to remember this as she prepared for their conversation.

The ride back to the forward camp drained the already tired armies. Well into the night, they arrived. Tents set and camps divided with minimal effort despite the dark, almost a habit at this point in their journey.

Upon arrival, Caoilainn found a place to bathe and change. Washing the dried blood over healed wounds and cleaning her hair from the dirt and leaves matted in. She brushed tangles out with her fingers and braided her ashen-blonde locks. Groomed, clean, her armor presentable again, she set to find Alistair.

Desire for integrity and absolution drove each step. The decision to end her adulterous trysts with Nathaniel brought with it resolute commitment and certainty of her love for Alistair. She had lost this clarity long ago; after their coronation, when her sadness grew to resentment, then merged with guilt when the affair began. Now determined to reclaim what she lost, freed from internal questions of loyalty, and willing to accept whatever consequences Alistair would require to absolve her misdeeds, she found his tent.

Her nervous heart pounded, unsure how he would receive her. Shoulders back, chin held high, her confidence masked her anxiety; deliberate steps brought her into Alistair’s tent. She moved the flap and entered without asking.

Eyes homed on him sitting on his cot, removing his boots. He glanced up when she entered before looking back to his feet without speaking.

“You wanted to talk?” Caoilainn inquired; she braced herself for his response.

 _This is new._  Alistair noticed the change in her behavior as out of the ordinary; Caoilainn rarely sought conversation risking potential for conflict. Having kicked off his boots, he leaned back on the cot. His palms rested behind him, and he gave a lazy grin as he evaluated the situation. “You’re eager to talk _and_ I didn’t have to hunt you down. I could get used to this.”

Caoilainn’s cheeks flushed for a moment before she took a few long strides toward him. Feet pressed into the ground in a wide stance, she crossed her arms. A half-smirk broke through her serious posture. “I do, Alistair. I want to put the past behind us.”

His head nodded side to side, weighing her response before he gave his. A crooked smile, partly a frown, and a raised brow examined her reaction. He needed to tell her the truth, regardless of its unpleasantness. “If only we could put the past behind us. I wish it were that easy. Caoilainn, I’m so happy you’re alive. Truly. But I'm still angry about Howe. Livid, even.” The temperature on his face rose with his tone. His breath caught. “When I thought I lost you, I realized all the things I wished I’d said. The things I needed to say.”

It would be easy to forgive her. Effortless pardoning of her transgressions might permit them to bury the past and live happily ever after. But he had tried that already. He knew about her affair from the beginning. Feigning ignorance with hopes she would cease her illicit interactions only enabled her to continue. Even upon finding her at Skyhold, he diminished his anger and attempted to placate. The night before the battle, Alistair’s rage finally boiled to the surface. With it, he found vivid obstinance.

No longer willing to pacify for her convenience, even if it conflicted with his relief for her survival, he did not abandon himself.

She met his rise and fall of anger with an astute nod, realizing Alistair had told her of his feelings days ago but he minimized it in efforts to rekindle their love. Prepared to accept the consequence of her actions, but also desiring to reason with him, she searched for words in her reply. “I haven't… been with him since you came to Skyhold, Alistair. I told him we're through.”

Alistair snorted, and his head leaned back before returning to their conversation in a biting tone. “You know, I figured as much. And yet, I'm still angry.” He paused, again noticing when he spoke of the anger, his anger grew. Leaning forward, his elbows rested on his knees, fingers touched, and he shook his head. “Of all the men, Caoilainn. I can't stand him. He's a miserable excuse for a man. And what you did was wrong.”

Within his vision of Caoilainn’s death, Alistair projected Nathaniel as far too bold in his demeanor, speaking of her as if they were friends. He abused his position as Caoilainn’s successor as Warden Commander and made Alistair’s work as King with the Wardens even more difficult. The bitterness of the memory still lingered but Alistair kept the images to himself.

“I know that,” she answered. Chin lifted higher, taking his words with vigilance. His expression of anger had reason to be far more reactive, and she appreciated his tamed demeanor. “And I’m sorry.”

“And I believe that to be true,” he squinted, studying her bold elegance returning with full force. Her apology didn’t seem to make him any less embittered.

“Alistair, I still have to lead him,” she shared her concern, uncrossing her arms and opening her palms. She pleaded, rather than growing defensive. The ease at which she could act on her volatile nature and yell, lose her temper and ignore Alistair’s emotions tempted her. But she acknowledged escalating their arguments had never been effective; it did little more than create dissonance and rarely provided resolution. Despite her frustration with Alistair’s resistance to her apology, she remained calm. “He's my First Lieutenant. When I go back to Vigil's Keep-”

“You keep saying that,” Alistair interrupted, referencing the conversation they had by the pond a few days prior. His nose scrunched and his hand lifted to illustrate his quotation of her words. “‘When I go back.’ How are you so sure you’ll go back?”

“What do you mean?” Her brow furrowed, and her head tilted to the side.

“Well, you're here for Morrigan to find the cure, right? That's kind of the whole reason we're in this mess. So what if she finds it?” He took a moment to study her body language in response to his critical evaluation. “Caoilainn, we won't be Grey Wardens anymore.”

Her shoulders slouched and her eyes grew larger but she didn’t reply.

“There it is. That’s what I thought,” he grinned, but his words stabbed with resentment. He pointed at her. “ _You_ haven’t thought that far ahead.” The anger made him bolder, he named her shortsightedness.

Caoilainn couldn’t lie. She hadn’t considered the rippling effects of being without the Taint. The lack of forethought embarrassed her. “It's hard to imagine life without the bond.”

“Tell me about it,” he gave a sour chuckle, forehead lifting. “I've done it since you left the palace. But my blood still craves it.” Alistair had never explained the challenges of being without the Wardens to anyone; another area of long held resentment toward Caoilainn he had denied himself.

“Oh…,” the news hit her with force; yet another reminder of her selfishness. Her life revolved around the Grey Warden connection, its significance something she endorsed to her army. But she never considered what it would be like for Alistair to live without it. “You never told me.”

“You never asked and I couldn't reach you.”

Shaking her head, she closed the space between them and knelt at Alistair’s feet. Her head ducked beneath his, her hands rested on his knees, looking up from her place beneath him. “I'm sorry. I know that’s not enough but I'm so sorry for everything. Alistair, please forgive me.” _Give me the chance to make it up to you._

His palm cradled her cheek, and he dipped his head. A sad but playful grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “No matter how angry I am, it won't stop me from loving you… and that’s despite my best efforts. But I need time, my Queen.” His last statement was final.

Lips tightened in a grim smile, she gave a short nod. A sinking feeling in her chest pulled her attention away. She used his knees as leverage and rose from the ground. “We’ll talk more at Skyhold?”

“We will,” he confirmed, leaning back on his cot again.  “For now, I want to focus on getting out of Orlais.”

A chuckle escaped her; the only response she could think of under these circumstances. Resigned of efforts to pursue him further, and uncomfortable with her obvious inexperience with Alistair needing space, she turned to walk from his tent.

Before Caoilainn could take a step, Alistair pushed off his cot and reached for her hand. He pulled her in, arms wrapped around her waist, requiring hers to reach around his neck. His nose nuzzled into the crook of her neck.  
  
Silence held respect for pain and shared wariness of the path toward resolution. Their embrace released, and she withheld a sigh. Reluctant, heart heavy, Caoilainn returned to her tent. _He needs time,_ she assured herself in response to thoughts of his dejection and her wish to allay his pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think! Kudos and comments are much appreciated. I'm so excited to keep this story going!
> 
> [Mother of Griffons](https://etaeternum.tumblr.com/motherofgriffons) on Tumblr. Feel free to follow and let me know who you are!


	2. Intention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caoilainn abandons her post with the Wardens to pursue Alistair.

_“You have good form.” She sidled up to Alistair on their walk back to camp, having just finished with their mission in the Deep Roads. A sideways glance and a tentative smile awaited his response to her compliment. Caoilainn’s training at Highever gave her enough skill in combat to know a decent fighter when she saw one._

_His lips pursed, surprised at what he translated as flattery. His grin exuded mock confidence, balancing out the nervous way she made his head feel hot. With a cocked brow his gaze looked down his front; measuring his appearance, he exclaimed, “You noticed!” His hand slid down his plated armor. “I’ve been watching my diet. Don’t want to lose my Chantry-boyish figure, you know. It would be a shame if all those years of Templar training went to waste.”_

_Caoilainn giggled as her cheeks turned red; she looked away. Staring straight, she avoided his eyes and bit her thumb to gather her composure before gazing back. She couldn’t hide her amused grin. “I’ve never heard of an ale and cheese diet before. Is that some special Templar training regimen?”_

_“Yes. That’s exactly it.” His grin widened as he observed her stifled giggles. “It was specially designed for me. I think it does wonders. Don't you?” He modeled his physique with a hand behind his head and the other on his hip._

_“Clearly,” she agreed and cleared her throat, trying to hide her blushing and return to her initial compliment. “But I meant your fighting. You have good posture and your shield techniques are more than effective.”_

_Alistair rolled his eyes. “Oh yes, of course you’d be complimenting my posture and technique. You know that right there,” he charmed her. “That’s how I know we put you in charge for a reason.”_

* * *

 

Formations held, the battalions of soldiers marched with force. A small collection of Inquisition soldiers stayed behind by Commander Rutherford’s order, protecting the Inquisitor and cleaning up the wreckage of the battlefield. Covering as much ground in daylight hours as possible, the journey through Orlais toward Skyhold required minimal effort. Tired feet and sore bodies failed to hinder the armies’ eagerness for real food and comfortable conditions.

Toward the back of the body of soldiers, the Grey Wardens marched. From her position on horseback, Caoilainn studied the mass of moving bodies. Feet fell in waves, wheels rolled, horses clopped hooves on the dirt path. The sounds echoed through the forest, fields of trees stretching from both sides of the march.

Leaving Alistair alone challenged Caoilainn’s very nature. Efficient and strategic, with a marked concern for results made Caoilainn an excellent commander. It did not serve her patience, nor did it lessen her anxious tendencies from fabricating stories of Alistair’s intentions. Withdrawn from her Wardens, reticent from her usual vocal and welcoming presence, Caoilainn occupied her thoughts with early memories of Alistair; mutual infatuation, motivating naive efforts to woo one another.

An itch bit at the back of her throat and she gasped. One hand released the reins of her horse, her fingers wrapped around her neck, massaging the tightened muscles while she choked back a cough. The horse continued to trot, and a voice called from a few paces away.

“Are you all right, Commander?”

Caoilainn's face scrunched as the cough settled though she noticed a painful tug in her chest. When her gaze traveled to the source of the question, she found Nathaniel. His new companion, Hale, walking at his side. She hadn’t noticed them so near until he spoke.

“I’m fine,” Caoilainn answered, disinterested in the distraction a conversation with Nate posed to her nostalgia. But a moment passed, an idea flourished, and she followed her brusque reply with an order. “Nate, watch the Wardens. You’re in command until I get back.” She shook the reins for her horse to pick up its speed.

“Caoilainn!” Nate called after her. His arms rose in the air, extending above him in questioning exasperation.

She looked over her shoulder without slowing her trot. “You know I trust you, Nate!” Facing forward again, she squeezed her legs and nudged the gelding’s body with the heel of her foot. Combined with a clicking sound from her tongue, the gait of Caoilainn’s horse changed to a lope. Leaning forward, she lifted from the saddle. The balls of her feet pressed into the stirrups as her legs gave balance. Galloping, she guided the horse along the outer edges of the sea of allies, darting through trees, until she reached the Ferelden army.

Longing sparked anxiety; the fear of loss wrought drive. Her weight shifted back into the saddle, cueing the horse to slow. Weaving through Ferelden soldiers, she spotted her King sitting atop his horse, engaged in a jovial conversation with an advisor. People parted to give her space; she trotted to Alistair’s other side. He did not leave his conversation when she matched his speed.

“I'll come back to Denerim,” she blurted without context or warning; willing to try anything to gain Alistair’s favor to save from the agony of his distance.

“What did you say?” Brow cocked, Alistair’s head spun to face her, dropping his other conversation. His horse snorted in response to the sudden shift of weight.

“If she finds the cure. If we're no longer connected to the Grey, I'll come back to the palace with you.” She wore a forced but hopeful grin; her frame bouncing with the subtle trot of her gelding.

“Caoilainn,” he sighed, observing her enthusiasm as he adjusted in his saddle. He doubted its authenticity, seeing through to a desperate attempt to remedy their woes. “Despite how much I would love to have this conversation right now- in front of my advisors, over the noise of the march- weren’t we going to talk about this at Skyhold?”

“I couldn’t wait,” she gave a hurried answer and sat straighter on her horse, defending against his pessimism.

“I see that,” he observed. “Well, my impatient wife, you know it won’t be easy. I don’t want you to make that decision for me.” Alistair warned her, remembering his challenges being without the bond to the Wardens. He was certain, without a doubt, it would be harder for Caoilainn, even without the Taint. The concern of her eagerness contributing to her compulsion and lack of prudence came to mind.

“It's my choice,” she lowered her chin, and smirked; a brow rose provocatively. “I’m sure I'll find things to do. Your army could use some help.” She referenced the Ferelden army’s failure to hold formation on the battlefield. Among other factors, it had contributed to Alistair's lack of support and influenced Caoilainn’s decision to abandon her post with the Wardens in the Arbor Wilds.

“Oh, is that so? Dear,” he pointedly addressed her, knowing she hated when he called her dear, “are you suggesting you’ll officially command my army now?” The question teased at her recent offenses of stealing his army; he replied with a snarky grin.

Her smirk melted away and her head rose, the condescension of his answer not lost on her. “Something like that,” she answered in earnest, with passive acknowledgment of his armies need for a more skilled commander. “If you'll have me, my King.”

Alistair shook his head, snorting. “Clever woman. Let me think on it. But for now, let's not get ahead of ourselves, shall we?”

The recommendation did not insult him, and his acting commander did not ride among the advisors on his other side. Her reasonable suggestion opposed principled stances he held on their boundaries. Caoilainn had resented Alistair for using her counsel when she lived in the palace; Alistair grew into ruling independently when she left. He did not wish to disrupt the balance he found through independence.

“Right,” Caoilainn nodded, respecting his previous request. “Getting out of Orlais.”

To Alistair’s continued surprise, Caoilainn stayed alongside him rather than returning to ride with the Wardens. She joined his conversations with his advisors and sparked dialogue with Alistair about experiences in the Arbor Wilds. Upon nightfall, the armies stopped further into the Emerald Graves. Caoilainn elected to stay with the Ferelden army.

Alistair studied her drastic shift in behavior with cautious curiosity, remaining distrustful of its stability. Waves of frustration crashed with the interest in potential resolution in spite of his anger.

* * *

 

The Wardens worked together; aid given to any who required it, support for the injured and nourishment for the ill. If any fell on the path, a fellow Warden offered a helping hand to lift them up. When they stopped to camp in the Emerald Graves, Caoilainn had not returned, but the soldiers cooperated under Nathaniel's watchful eye.

A campfire glowed between the group of scouts. Flames danced, intertwining as they reached, grasping the space above the pit. Hale sat across from Nathaniel. Her drum rested against a leg, fingers patted lazy beats in no particular order as she spoke with Damia. Each time his eyes traveled around the Wardens, Nathaniel’s gaze landed on them. Having bathed and eaten, the camp settled around smaller fires before the Wardens dispersed for the evening.

The absence of the Commander did not encourage Nate’s mood. Not the type to be jealous, he found the feeling of irritability and judgment of Caoilainn’s choice to leave the Warden camp uncomfortable. She abandoned her work for Alistair and allowed her duties to fall to Nathaniel. He took this as another piece of evidence against relationships of love, seeing them only as a distraction from life’s more pressing matters- in this case, a Warden’s a sense of duty.

Eyes scanned around again and when they landed on Hale, he found her staring back; squinting, surveying him from across the fire. Nathaniel’s chin lifted and his frown deepened at the young woman’s analysis. But her eyes passed from Nate to his tent, nestled in the back of the Warden encampment. The woman’s brow lifted in a casual question when her eyes returned to his gaze. Lips parted, her head made a subtle tilt toward the direction from which she looked.

Amused by their silent communication, a smirk pulled at Nate’s frown despite his efforts to maintain his bitterness. He gave a single nod and watched as Hale departed from her chat with Damia; she took her drum back to her tent before wandering toward Nate’s quarters.

Allowing a few minutes to pass, Nate checked with Isenam, a most-trusted fellow scout, requesting a favor to monitor the Wardens while Nate retired early. The tall, blond elf agreed, removing his quiver and bow before settling down on a log by the fire.

Nathaniel entered his tent. The sight of the lovely creature waiting for him, prostrated on his bedroll, made for welcome pleasure.

* * *

 

Intentions pure. _Give him space._ Caoilainn tried, and diligently. But the desire to stay near Alistair grew from the most authentic places. His pain stemmed from distrust, flourished with the threat of loss. The urge to heal the wounds she created kept her from leaving, and he didn’t push her away. She held space in other ways, allowing their time together to be relaxed, attempting to relieve from pressure and expectations.

Alistair had longed for her attention. Since they ended the Blight, and she became Warden Commander, he had craved for her immeasurably. And now she was here, completely. Too much, it made him discontented. In spite of her duties at the opposite end of the march, she provided him with her undivided focus. Annoyed by her devoted presence, but he still desired her love.

Camp illuminated by a campfire, Caoilainn and Alistair ate their meals in private, his tent behind them. They sat quietly on separate logs. Pleasant conversation ended when night fell, replaced by stifled silence, loaded with expectations. Neither knew how to broach the subject to clarify their intent with the other nor was either certain of their motives for the evening.

Alistair cleared his throat, keen to find a moment away from Caoilainn and the confusing emotions she roused. “Even though I am thoroughly enjoying this conversation, I am going to walk that way,” he pointed as he stood, “until I find somewhere to wash off this awkward silence.”

“I’ll join you,” she offered, rising from her seat to follow him. “If you want.” Stopping, she waited for his answer, worried she had pushed too far.

Alistair snorted, “You know it might surprise you, but I think I can make it on my own.” Cold eyes met her silvery stare.

Though he had not intended to stab with the remark, he realized the truth of the statement in all contexts. He would survive without her. Caoilainn’s brows scrunched in pain and though he regretted hurting her, his unwillingness to recant his comment kept him from apologizing.

“All right,” she offered. Her shoulders widened, and she took a deep breath. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

He recognized her proud stance to protect from crying and losing control, signs of restraint, withholding tears. Absent of the desire to comfort her, instead his frustration only swelled.

His foot tapped and his fingers pressed to his brow. With a sigh, he confronted the over-attentiveness he experienced. “Caoilainn, don’t you need to get back to the Wardens?”

“They can wait,” she answered with a timid smirk. The hope her soft words and dedication of time would prove his negativity wrong, she continued. “I put someone else in charge.”

“Your favorite lieutenant, no doubt.” He asked through a vindictive sneer, having formed his own conclusions from her reply. The thought of Nathaniel triggered his spite, tested his patience and disgusted him. “Are you sure he’s not waiting for you?”

Sudden, hit with a violent blow, her jaw dropped. Tears swelled and her face turned red. Scowling, Caoilainn snapped; her finger pointed at him. “Fuck you, Alistair.” Her voice rose with ire, shaking, and her hand came back to her body, pressing against her chest. “I’m trying to make it right. Don’t you see that?”

“I thought I lost you,” he barked, snarling at her, lip curled. Upset and infuriated, his tone contradicted the anguish of his words. “One minute you were gone, and then suddenly you were back. It was easier to forgive you when I thought you were-”

“Well, I’m not,” she interrupted; her voice trembled.

Pooled tears in Caoilainn’s eyes traced down her cheeks. Emotions ignited, heating conflict. Caoilainn’s desperation charged his anger; Alistair’s coldness strengthened her shame.

Looking to the side, he prepared to walk away. But an unexpected step toward her closed the space between them. Nearly touching, Alistair towered over Caoilainn; she glared up in stubborn defiance.

He sneered. Volatility swirled in the short space between them, seconds passed. Alistair considered a list of insults, jabs at her misdeeds. And Caoilainn shielded herself, preparing to walk into whatever verbal battle he incited. Prideful, unwilling to back down, her chest heaved; his nostrils flared.

In an instant, his hand rose and his head lowered. Fingers tangled in her hair and pulled her head back; she gasped, and he growled. Alistair’s mouth collided with Caoilainn’s in frustration and longing. Parting lips allowed their tongues to reunite. She moaned into his mouth.  
  
Her hand lifted to his face, her fingers tried a gentle caress in an intimate moment. Maintaining locked lips, Alistair caught her slender wrist in his hand, large, calloused, and overpowering. He lifted her arm above her head, disabling her from moving it. His fingers laced into hers, their entwined hands hanging over their heads; his other hand still buried in her hair, tugged her head back to hold her position. Caoilainn’s free arm stayed by her side, respectful. The muscles flexed, tightened, resisting the urge to pull him closer.

Prolonged, the kiss stretched, communicating weighted volumes of resentment and love. Alistair pressed harder before breaking away. Speechless, she gaped at him. Watching wordless as he released her hand and hair, turned and walked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! Please let me know what you think in the comments! <3
> 
> [Mother of Griffons](https://etaeternum.tumblr.com/motherofgriffons) on Tumblr. Feel free to follow and let me know who you are!


	3. Divide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caoilainn discusses the cure for the Calling with Nathaniel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caoilainn's Theme Song: [Shake It Off by Florence + the Machine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WbN0nX61rIs)  
> Just a note, I decided to write Hale's speech a bit more like how I hear it in my head from here out.

_9:32 Dragon_

_Tender hands hooded her eyes from where he paced behind her. Slow steps forward brought them to the door._

_“No peeking, my love!” He exclaimed as he used a hand to open the entryway before resuming his mission to veil her sight. “All right, one more step. Be careful.”_

_They moved forward in unison. “Surprise!” Alistair yelled. His enthusiastic hands winged away, revealing the interior of a room. A small kitchen, a four-post bed, a table adorned with a bouquet of roses, and a separate bathing room._

_The private cabin, tucked away outside of Redcliffe Village, sat near a secluded pond. Perfect for the reunited couple’s respite, the Hinterlands provided solitude and scenery._

_“Maker,” Caoilainn gasped. Smiling, water pooling in her eyes as she gaped at the room before her._

_“Now that you're done rebuilding the order, we can run away together,” Alistair walked into the room to study her. Excitement poured from every word. “That is, on occasion, until we go back the palace. It's like the best part of our Blight journeys. Except now we get a real bed... and walls! And of course, there's no Blight.”_

_He watched in hopeful expectation of her response to his gift._

_“Alistair,” she murmured in awe. Her gaze traveling the room absorbed the tranquil space._

_“Phew,” he made a playful wipe of his brow. “Thank the Maker. You haven't forgotten my name. I was worried there for a second. But really Caoilainn, do you like it?”_

_“It's perfect,” she mumbled, unable to find more suitable words._

_Alistair inched closer to the dresser near the bed and pulled out the top drawer. Lingerie, something in which Caoilainn had expressed interest during a conversation with Leliana; he overheard and bought her robe before their coronation. Based on her adoration of the lacy attire, he quickly had an assistant purchase more items from Val Royeaux._

_Alistair held up a lace camisole._

_“And my favorite part. Now you're back, I get to see you in things like this more often.” He waggled his eyebrows._

_She walked to him; seductive grin and a diligent stare locked. Her hand swept the camisole before she grabbed his shirt to pull him in. She kissed him; lips told of sultry plans for their month away from Denerim. After breaking away she walked to the bathroom and changed._

_Weeks of lovemaking followed. In every part of the cabin, on every flat surface, and outside when the mood called for it. The royal couple explored the mountains during the day with no goal but to appreciate nature and each other’s company. When night fell, star-gazing gave opportunity to observe silence. Making their own meals, heating their own water, cleaning their own clothes brought independence not available in the palace._

_Year after year, vacations at the cabin afforded much-needed privacy.  
_

* * *

_Great. Just great._ Regret, influenced by inherent pining, motivated by indecisiveness. Some deep yearning compelled him to kiss Caoilainn. Her walls had come down, leaving him with a present and attentive partner. Festering indecision worsened, regardless of her attention or absence. His wife, he realized, was no longer the source of his discontent. It forced him to acknowledge his inner conflict as beyond her control; it heightened his frustration.

Now, Caoilainn likely waited in his tent for his return. Assuming her expectations for intimacy, and unable to deny the desire tugging his mind; craving the celebration of her life in the most private ways with her walls around him. Closeness, comfort created by connection seemed a welcome reprieve from conflict. But Alistair didn't want to look at her. It was too soon; he was too angry. The dichotomy drove his unpleasant disposition for the evening.

So he left, but only after he kissed her. Certain he confused her, annoyed with himself, he found a stream to bathe. Alistair used the solitude to think before returning, prepared to tell her to leave.

But when he arrived, he found his private camp empty.

* * *

 

_Blackness surrounded. Expanding in all directions. A chill crawled up her spine. Caoilainn made to gasp, or yell, or scream, anything to break the deafening silence but no sound came out. Her body sweat despite the cold. The need to escape this void, this absence of anything, everything brought dread. She ran. Beads of moisture dripped down beneath her armor until running became falling. With no sense of direction of time, she plummeted, fast, to no end. Gripped by fear, her heart hammered._

Until the pain woke her, and she shot up. Gasping for air, the dream- no, nightmare- cut short by the stab in her chest where she had been hit by the disfigured enemy. The Red Templar’s spiked limb had driven into her body. Now healed, free of any wound, a strange swollen and unattractive scar marked the location to remind of her near-death. The persistent cough grew from this spot, she realized at the same time she noticed the metallic taste in her mouth.

Caoilainn went to find water to wash away the nightmare. The cool creek calmed her nerves; clean liquid brought to her face and neck rinsed sweat and terror. She made her way back to the tent, fearing sleep but needing rest before the continuation of the Inquisition march the next day.

She missed Alistair.

He had left her standing at the campfire. Mouth agape, Caoilainn watched Alistair walk until he disappeared from sight. Aloof steps carried him, joined by his cold shoulder. But the kiss belied his temper.

Perplexed, lost in the mixed messages from Alistair, she had wandered from his camp to the Wardens' encampment. Late in the night, the camp slept by the time she arrived; she stumbled into her tent. His wounds, deep and calling for healing by no clear remedy left Caoilainn without a plan, devoid of any strategy to solve their problems.

For now, she left him alone. Alistair's drastic differences did more to confuse than appreciate. Attempts of sleep led to the restlessness ridden with nightmares that no amount of clean water could cleanse from her mind.

She craved a warm body to keep her company and save her from the recurring bleak and lonely nightmare in vain. Commitment to Alistair made dalliances with Nathaniel unappealing, but the temptation of the lieutenant had rarely been about carnal need so much as a distraction from anxious patterns. Now tired from lack of sleep, her restless mind amplified the fear brought by nightmares. She craved the comfort of Alistair’s loving presence more than ever. It made the last image of his cold shoulder walking away poignantly discouraging.

* * *

 

 _What is this, anyway?_ Nathaniel pondered in the early morning hours. Stretched lazily on his bedroll, his lean and muscular frame relaxed. A lone leg hung out one side, appreciating the contrast of the cooler air against the warmth from underneath the blanket.

Warmth created by two. The young elf woman slept on him; her naked upper body draped over his chest, nestled under his arm. Languid repetitive movement of his hand stroked the bare skin of her toned back. His other hand appreciated the texture of her hair against his palm. The slumbering huntress had less bite than in her wakeful state.

He cared for her. Denial of this had been futile since he met her. But her appearance in his waking dream, the nightmare of Caoilainn’s death, disquieted him. It shook loose his rigid way of life: not reliant on anyone but himself, and uncommitted to anything but the Wardens. In his vision, Hale had challenged this approach, asked him to divulge his insecurities, and he suffered for it. The young woman’s reaction drove them apart. Yet, here she was, sleeping night after night in his tent.

 _Just another close friend,_ he concluded. The guilt springing from the parallels between this friendship and the affair with Caoilainn became harder to justify.

But in Caoilainn’s survival, he lost a friend; he had no evidence to believe otherwise.

Just as the thought floated through his mind, Caoilainn barged into Nathaniel’s tent. Fully armored, hair braided tighter than usual- a sign of an inflexible mood. The circles under her eyes did not diminish her energy, and her professionalism did not falter when Caoilainn’s gaze processed Hale in Nate’s bedroll.

“I need your time,” Caoilainn ordered, her hands planted firmly on her hips as she stared down at him. A judgmental brow raised as Hale shifted in her sleep, her head resting on Nate’s chest, turning to face the other direction. Caoilainn’s eyes rolled. “I’m so glad to see the Inquisitor’s cousin is being treated so well.”

The night before the battle, Caoilainn had addressed Nate's interest in Hale, a relative of the Inquisitor. Though Caoilainn discouraged relations among Wardens, she did not enforce rules. All knew the Commander’s husband, the King of Ferelden had himself been a Warden. But she banned cross-rank relations to protect the junior soldiers. An exception due to her own hypocrisy, Nate had more freedom. She trusted him. Caoilainn warned him not to harm the young woman though both knew if Nate hurt Hale, the huntress would ensure her own consequences.

“As always, my time is yours, Commander,” Nate offered with a smirk, ignoring her last comment. He didn’t move from his position under Hale and the rumble of his chest caused the young woman to rustle again. Hale made a whimpering groan of displeasure at her sleep being disturbed.

Caoilainn started, her tone sharp and annoyed, “Nate-”

“Caoilainn.” He replied with a riposte to her lack of decorum in using his nickname.

Muscles tightening in a quick and frustrated response, Caoilainn’s face scrunched as she sighed. She cleared her throat and reframed her statement. “Lieutenant, I’d like to discuss an urgent matter with you,” she said; her strained voice sounded and her forehead lifted, dramatizing the urgency of this topic. “In private.”

“Hm,” Nate grumbled; his brow arched. “I thought you called an end to our ‘private meetings,’ Commander. Whatever could the Mother of the Grey want with me before her army wakes?”

“Nathaniel!” Shocked, she rasped as her eyes grew larger. Long held agreement of the secrecy of the unprofessional aspects of their friendship opposed Nate’s blatant disrespect.

“Caoilainn,” his smug attitude continued. The huntress’s breathing changed. Deep breaths disrupted, transitioned to lighter inhales and exhales. Hale was awake, but she kept her eyes closed. It did not stop his reply to Caoilainn. “If for no one’s interest but your own, I suggest we keep our meetings outside of my tent.”

 _Damn it,_ Caoilainn cursed herself. _He’s right._ “While I appreciate your sound advice, _Lieutenant, I_ suggest you lose the attitude.”

“Yes, _Mother,_ ” Nate replied, eyes squinting as his snarky grin widened.

Caoilainn rolled her eyes and scoffed. “I mean it. And fine, if you want to talk with your new _pet_ here, so be it.” She caught her breath and took a quick moment to plan her words. “Nate, if I step down, I want you to succeed me.”

“Whoa, Caoilainn,” his head drew back at the impact of her statement. Brow furrowed, he held on to Hale tighter. “Is that whiny husband of yours putting you up to this? You don’t have to listen to him.”

“No, he’s not,” she gave an irritated huff and shook her head. “I’m trying to find a cure. I want to be free of the taint. I want to know if you’ll take my stead.”

“What? Since when?” He asked, regretting not meeting Caoilainn’s demand for a private conversation. The words falling from her mouth contradicted everything Nate knew of her dedication to the Wardens.

“Since I ended the Blight,” the sound of Caoilainn’s curt reply lingered in the heavy air of the small tent.

Nate paused to breathe, eyes darting as his mind sifted through memories of the last ten years. The pedestal on which he had placed Caoilainn as the ‘Mother of Griffons’ toppled as if the Caoilainn he thought he knew was a lie. He had no words.

“Nathaniel, I need to know,” Caoilainn stared, brow creased, urgency captured by her tone.

“No, Caoilainn,” Nate snapped, a low bark he caught and calmed before completing; his jaw clenched. Though he knew Hale wasn’t sleeping, she was supposed to be. “No, you don’t. Let’s talk about this when it’s relevant.”

“Damn it, Nate,” she hissed, eyes wide. “What has gotten into you? We’ll talk about it when I say. As long as I am Commander-”

“Then the answer is no,” his deep grumble interrupted her. Jaw dropped, Caoilainn did not reply. With no retort, she stared at Nate, brows furrowed. “If you want me to make that decision now, the answer is no, I will not take your stead.” His final statement left no room for argument. But Caoilainn’s look of apparent desperation brought a sympathetic sigh. “Fine. Give me some time to think about it, Commander.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” professionalism resumed. Caoilainn knew to cut her losses and hope for the best by giving Nate time to think. “We’ll depart at daybreak. Please make sure your _guest_ is out before the camp wakes.”

Caoilainn nodded toward Hale and left Nathaniel’s tent.

Just as the tent flap closed, Hale pushed up off his chest and faced him. “The fuck’s she mean a cure?” She asked, her forehead scrunched in confusion.

Nate gave a lazy shake to his head, reflecting his exasperation with Caoilainn and his genuine disbelief. “To the Calling. She’s abandoning the Wardens to stay with him.” The honesty with which he spoke to Hale shocked even himself.

“But then she won’t be a Warden anymore,” Hale tried to follow the logic and her eyes widened as if she didn’t understand. “That’s why she wants you to be Commander, is it? Looks like you might get that promotion after all, old man.”

“I don’t know,” he grumbled, frowning both at her accurate reflection and her jab at his age. His free hand came to his forehead to press his fingers to his temples. “I don’t want to think about it.”

“Fine,” Hale shrugged. “Whatever you say. But,” she pulled Nate’s hand away from his forehead to permit eye contact. The strong-willed young woman glared at him, her threatening finger held between them. “I’m not yer fucking pet.”

A tired chuckle broke Nate’s frown, pleasantly surprised by Hale’s willingness to let the subject drop, and completely unsurprised by her crass remark. “Of course not, my lady,” he teased. “I would never attempt to domesticate you.”

“Good,” she lifted her chin and puffed her bare chest, “you better not.”

Smirking, Nate appreciated the brazen woman’s display. Her bloated confidence made him question if she fully understood the meaning of the word ‘domesticate.’

The young Dalish woman, orphaned in the Denerim Alienage at the age of 9, had admitted her lack of education to him on their journey through Orlais. But the thought didn’t last as Hale rediscovered her position of lounging against Nate’s chest. Her unhurried fingers traced wandering lines through his chest hair as her lids closed to nap before daybreak.

Nathaniel’s utter disappointment in the news from Caoilainn contended with the ease the huntress’s company provided.

* * *

 

Having forgone her efforts to sleep, discontent now jumbled by Nate’s belligerence. Caoilainn left his quarters to pack for the trip for the day. The world spinning around her, short breath caught on anxious whirlwinds of thoughts. Questioning who she trusted to take over the Wardens if not Nathaniel led her mind in circles pressuring her to delay the relinquishment of her title.

The distant worry of living without the Taint, no longer being connected to her army removed from her awareness. Occasional thoughts crept in with her other worries but left when her frustration with Nate and Alistair recurred.

Troubled by the combativeness of the two most important men in her life, Caoilainn found no clear strategy to tackle the challenges of communicating with them; waiting resulted as her only option.

Fatigue found her as the morning entered, and with severity. Poor sleep, exacerbated by quiet bouts of coughing prevented Caoilainn from active participation in the collapsing of the Grey Warden camp. None noticed her diminished energy or detached demeanor, and as the Wardens joined the rest of the Inquisition to repeat another day of marching, she hid her symptoms. Her coughs muffled by the cloth she brought to her mouth. The patterned waves of movements resumed as the formations continued north through the wider path of the lush forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please, please! I'd love to know what you think in the comments.


	4. Resolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rules are set.

_9:35 Dragon_

_The third year, toward the end of their holiday at the cabin, they walked to Redcliffe Village to gather supplies for their trip back to Denerim. Merchants gawked at the royal couple’s candidness each time they came for supplies. The pair wandered the town with relaxed conversation until Caoilainn stopped in her tracks in the busy commotion in the village._

_Alistair noticed she was not at his side from a few paces ahead. Brows furrowed with concern, he swiveled to see her staring. Following her eyes, he spotted a common woman holding hands with a small child as they walked through the crowd. Conversing with the little one, the mother pointed to something in the distance and looked back to her daughter with a wide smile. Alistair’s gaze followed where the woman pointed. A short distance away, a man who must have been the girl’s father bent to his knees and opened his arms. The little girl waddled to him. He scooped her up and lifted her into the air before bringing his giggling daughter in for a hug. The mother, still smiling, walked to them; she was expecting another child._

_“Oh. I just remembered I probably left the lantern lit... and the front door wide open,” Alistair mumbled, painfully aware of the sensitive topic of their infertility highlighted by this happy family's sentimental moment. What had once been a distant hope for a miracle pregnancy had sharpened to stabbing hopelessness over the years. He knew it sank into her gut each time she witnessed a mother and child, even worse, an elated family. “Come on, my love. Let's get back.” Alistair put his arm around Caoilainn’s shoulder and ushered her to walk a different direction._

_Caoilainn gave a blank nod, her eyes reddening, tears pooling as she turned away. She shielded her eyes with a free hand as they walked, hiding her tearful reaction. With no clear way to console her, apart from offering guidance, Alistair walked Caoilainn in silence back to the cabin. Grief-stricken mood swings often incited emotional distance. Alistair still didn't know how to handle them; his usual method of giving her space wasn’t an option._

_The two entered the cabin. An unexpected change of pace, Caoilainn spoke. With a heavy sigh, her head lowered and shook before facing Alistair. “I don’t want to go back,” Caoilainn declared as the door clicked shut behind Alistair._

_His head tilted to one side. He made careful choice of his words, “I’m sorry, my love but we have to go back. We can’t stay here.”_

_Her gaze met his, brows furrowed, pleading and angry. Stubborn by nature, Caoilainn's stance stood strong. “Alistair, I’m tired of it and I don’t want to do it anymore. It’s like I’m at my mother’s salons all the time.” She rolled her eyes. Elbows bent, her hands spread with her aggravated speech. A probing gaze searched for his understanding as her words fell. “I hate entertaining noble women and I’m certain they judge me for not giving you a child. And you know I want to, Alistair, more than anything. But I can’t.” Caoilainn’s final statement released with a tired sigh, “I’d rather be in armor.”_

_He snorted, a slight chuckle of agreement. “Oh, I know it. You and me both. I hate meetings with advisors, signing scrolls, sitting through court,” he walked to her and put his gentle hands on her shoulders. “But I need you, my love. The gorgeous, smart, strong Queen that you are. I need your help with all this King stuff.”_

_Alistair valued his wife's return to Denerim three years ago. If he ignored what he knew of her relationship with her Lieutenant, Caoilainn's presence gave him support and her experience as Warden Commander made for good counsel. The choice to enjoy her return and trust its permanence abated any urge to confront the issue._

_Caoilainn took an intense turn to meet his gaze with a creased brow and set jaw. “Then let me come to your advisory meetings. I can add my thoughts in court. It would save time from you asking for my advice later when you need it.”_

_“Well,” his gaze wandered and his eyebrows gathered as the word trailed off. “It’s really more of a man’s game. You know what I mean? No girls allowed, so to speak. I know it’s stupid, but I can’t change the rules.”_

_The excuse lacked validity. Women held roles and had voice in his court though few. Representatives from varying regions of Ferelden primarily consisted of men. Alistair's aversion to Caoilainn’s proposition sprang from insecurity._

_Disgusted, her mouth slacked, lip curled; she blinked in disbelief. Exaggerated and annoyed annunciation coated each word. “But you can. You’re the King, Alistair. You make the rules.” She shirked her shoulders away from his hands._

_Cheeks reddened, Alistair shrugged and his palm rubbed his neck. “That’s true, I suppose but I don’t know if everyone else is ready for that. I’m sorry, my love. I’d rather not rock the boat too much just yet. I’m still fairly new to this King business.” He avoided her suggestion._

_That same year Caoilainn returned to Vigil’s Keep._

* * *

 

Days passed. Alistair’s disdain became annoyance with longing; churning the strange amalgam of love and resentment, anger and pining with neither a catalyst nor relief in sight.

The size of the collective forces required the fleet to march north through the Emerald Graves, reaching the low-lying Dales. Plains of open field skirted the forested land east until the frigid climate of the Emprise. Wider ground permitted the armies to march freely, less encumbered by the wooded environment. Grass and sparse trees spread through the large valley. Formations of rocks protruded from the earth, breaking up the uneven grasslands. Abandoned buildings showed remnants of complicated history, and occupied military bases needing repair scattered between boulders.

Alistair’s frustration came and went in waves as he stood away from the bustling camp unpacking for the evening. Instead, he observed the land ahead. _Typical,_ he noted. _She's given up._ It often seemed habitual for Caoilainn to practice evasion of situations where she didn't have control. Reminded of her predictability, Alistair evaluated her absence as true to her pattern. Though he wasn’t surprised, the realization hurt.  

“Alistair?” A tentative and careful voice rang from behind; she stated simply his name. He closed his eyes. With a deep breath, he allowed Caoilainn’s voice to resonate and soothe stressed nerves, unable to deny he had missed the sound.

He replied without facing her. “Come join me to revel in the wondrous sight of the Orlesian countryside.” His sarcastic sing-song voice played at the deteriorating environment. Caoilainn’s quiet steps brought her to his side; Alistair pointed. “See, on this side is a crumbling Orlesian building. But over here is a collapsed military base because of civil war- Orlesians love civil war, you know.” He took in an excessive gasp, “And if you look far enough in the distance, you can even make out decayed elven architecture. Isn’t it lovely? We should come back here on holiday.”

“I’ll pass,” she gave a relaxed giggle, amused with Alistair’s review of the landscape. Relieved to receive his humor after spending days hesitating to approach him again. His playfulness made uplifting distraction from her fatigue. “I’d rather the cabin.”

She referred to the cabin outside of Redcliffe Village: the peaceful resting place purchased the first time she returned from Vigil’s Keep. After each Summerday the royal couple hid for a month in the mountains, away from the city. The visits ceased when Caoilainn fled back to the Wardens.

“I sold it,” Alistair replied without moving, his tone cold and indifferent. “The second year you were gone, I couldn’t reach you. I wouldn’t use it and I didn’t want the reminder of the good times we had there.”

“They weren’t all good times,” Caoilainn’s sad murmur echoed his aloofness. Her fond memories of the cabin had been sullied by Alistair’s timidity when she confronted him about changing policies.

Their last conversation at the cabin, not one of his finest moments, had replayed until his stomach turned. Nauseated and ashamed of his cowardice, regret singed his ego, now prodded by her murmur. “I’m sorry,” Alistair snapped an authentic but irritated apology.

“I’m sorry I ran away,” she mirrored his remorse with her own.

Amends hesitated; silence burdened with the unsaid. Side by side, the pair stood looking out on the horizon as dusk fell. Tacit reconciliation teetered on a cusp.

Emotion broke through Alistair’s tone. Sadness and regret sounded from the surface and underneath it, fear. “I don’t know what to do,” he explained. “Whether you cheat on me, or you run, or you die-” The last word stung. Alistair’s head made a quick turn as the impact hit. He inhaled. “How do I know you’re not just going to leave?” _Like everyone does._ Pain filled his incredulous question.

A teary gaze up from Alistair’s side, Caoilainn wiped her eyes. “I’m here and I'm not going anywhere. I’m committed, Alistair. I’ll do my best not to die anytime soon, but in the meantime I want to be with you. What do you need from me to prove that?”

“Rules,” his even tone gave a quick reply. Head turned to pierce her stare, he bit his lip for a moment then replied, jaw firm. “I need rules we agree on.”

Brows furrowed, unclear of his demand, she asked for clarification, “What sort of rules?”

“No one else,” he answered with his first rule. “It’s our marriage, not to be shared with anyone. No matter the distance between us, and no matter the time before we see each other again.”

“Of course,” she gave a hurried nod, “that’s a given.”

“Well, I figured I would make it clear, in case you had any other plans.”

Caoilainn sighed at his admonishment. “Alistair,” she groaned.

“I’m not done, my love,” he said, his sharp tone lifting as his mood softened. “Rule two: be honest with me. I want no more secrets.” Caoilainn’s silent nod gave him a signal to continue. “Rule three: Don’t make your decisions based on me. I don’t want your counsel if you’ll resent me for it. Don’t come back to Denerim to make me happy.”

“Thank you,” she cooed. Unhealthy elements of their relationship often arose from ill-considered efforts to satisfy the other. Caoilainn smiled; her tense shoulders eased.  

“Uh-huh,” he took her gratitude and gave a meager grin. “But that one’s for my sake as much as yours. Rule four: do not undermine me. I am the King of Ferelden, Caoilann and I need your respect.”

“My fealty stands, Alistair,” her hand covered her chest as she bowed her head. “No undermining. Do you have any other rules?”

“At the moment, just one. Tell me what you want from me. Please, if you’re missing something, if you need something, I need to know.”

“Those rules are fair,” she agreed. Her head lowered as she sought words. “I’ll need my own.”

“All right. State your terms, my Queen.” He lifted his arms, palms out. “Remember to go easy on me.”

Caoilainn gave a playful roll of her eyes. “One,” she lifted her finger to exemplify the word. “I need my independence. I’m not just your lovely Queen. No more spies and I want my own work. Most importantly, I want to be recognized for it.”

“Oh, woman,” Alistair snorted and rubbed his chin. “I said go easy on me. Damn, you drive a hard deal.” Caoilainn’s brows lifted, waiting for his confirmation. “We’ll make it work, my love.”

“Two: Don’t appease me. Don’t hold your frustration, anger or sadness and take it out on me ten years later.”

“Got it. Must bottle feelings for less than ten years,” he bobbed his head in agreement, a playful grin highlighting his jest.

“Alistair,” she groaned, failing her attempt to withhold a chuckle. “I’m not kidding.”

“No appeasing,” he confirmed. “Check. It’s a real shame though. I’m definitely the best appeaser I know.”

“Three: I won't make your decisions for you. I’m your wife, not your mother.”

“Ouch!” Alistair laughed and cupped his hand over his heart.

“I mean it,” she assured, her expression showing her severity. “Four: I stay Commander until we find a cure.” Alistair’s eyes squinted, humor lost. “Or until the Inquisition no longer needs us, then I’ll come back to Denerim. But I still want to make time for the search.” He gave a solemn nod and waited for her final rule. Caoilainn’s eyes widened, her face pleading, palms lifted. “Nate is my friend. I swear to you, nothing will happen between us, but he’ll need me if he takes over as Commander. Five: I keep communication with Nathaniel when I return to the city.”

The wisdom Caoilainn gained as Commander occurred when she undertook rebuilding the order on her own. Alistair's duties as King kept him from joining. She stayed embittered by his abandonment, neglecting her anger around the topic until she confessed her pain at Skyhold.

Frowning, Alistair gave a decisive shake of his head. “I can’t have that,” he replied. “I don’t trust him, Caoilainn and that would challenge the trust I need to rebuild with you.”

“It’s not that simple. There’s so much to leading the order, communications with Weisshaupt, the other divisions. I can’t just leave him to figure it out like I had to,” she reasoned, desperate to explain the complicated nature of taking over as Warden Commander.

“No,” Alistair reiterated, predicting her rationalization. “You can find someone else to command or he can communicate with me, the King if he needs help.”

“Alistair,” she made a curt statement of his name as if he might hear the harshness of this requirement. Unmoving, Alistair peered down at Caoilainn, set in his decision. With a deep breath in, Caoilainn centered herself, calming her nerves and worry surrounding her potential successor. She gave a patient nod. Her future with Alistair dependent on this priority made the choice simple.  “I understand.”

Resolution discovered, conversation assuaged years of bitterness and guilt. Mutual observance of reaction found amity. The two faced each other, Caoilainn in her Warden gambeson, Alistair in his leather brigandine; the Inquisition camp nearly set for the evening on one side and the open field of the Exalted Plains spread on the other.

“The rules can change.” Alistair broke their respectful silence. His hands found their way back to her shoulders. “But we need to talk should they be changed, expanded, or added to.”

“I appreciate that,” Caoilainn replied and held his gaze. Eyes locked, intense in agreement. Her excited heart fluttered with gratitude as relief washed over. The looming fear she might lose him vanished, bringing appreciative tears in place. “Thank you. I love you.”

“I love you too,” he replied. Effortless words, unneeded, understood by both, and spoken out of familiarity.

Rules set, hearts lifted, and hope renewed, both given an opportunity for redemption. Alistair’s anger now distant with her assurance and commitment; Caoilainn’s blind trust affirmed by his ardent love.

Alistair stepped in. Bodies pressed, a hand moved from her shoulder to her neck, his thumb pressed against her cheek. The other hand found her waist. Foreheads touched, thankful for reunion, absorbing hard earned connection. Alistair’s head lowered; earnest lips found hers, sealing their agreement with a kiss.

In unspoken congruity, the pair walked from the camp. Extending the harmony of this unifying outcome, savoring the moment in ardor. Like-minded steps carried them through the plains as darkness fell. The two walked in reverence. Stars shined from the clear sky, illuminating their path. Unhurried conversation allowed time to wander; flirtatious subtleties mixed through their dialogue more as the hour drew late. The Inquisition camp drifted from sight.

Concordant, the couple stopped as if reaching their intended destination. A tree marked the location. Its drooping limbs and base composed of many wide segments was unlike the barren branches of timber in the rest of the plains.

Caoilainn turned to face him. “We made it,” she whispered, distinguishing their wordless communication of intention. A few steps backward brought her under the tree’s protective arms.

“We did,” Alistair echoed, following her steps until they were both under the branches’ haven.

Steady steps, Caoilainn’s back bumped the tree and Alistair closed the space, pinning her so the thick trunk stood between them and the Inquisition camp. A small whimper released, Caoilainn’s hand grabbed the cord linking his spaulder. She pulled him in for a kiss. Engaged, the pair locked mouths. Alistair’s hand returned to the base of her scalp and their tongues separated lips, twirling in celebration of reunion.

Long seconds stretched by, love rekindling to fire until Alistair broke away. Caoilainn’s moan resonated as her neck tilted. Revealing sensitive skin begging to be bitten or throttled in a primal nature.

“I have another rule,” he mumbled, nuzzling his nose against the tender skin of her neck before leaving a gentle kiss.

Caoilainn emitted a soft _‘mmm,’_ lost in anticipation for him to inflict brief anguish to stimulate pleasure.

“Rule six: no more pain. I’m not hurting you, Caoilainn. Even if you like it,” he murmured into her ear. The curve of his grin tickled.

Her hum turned to a whine; a disappointed groan unhappy with this information. She lifted her head, returning his gaze; displeased brows furrowed, lip protruded in a subtle pout. Something she discovered in her time away from Alistair, Caoilainn's penchant for masochism, built on a foundation of trust in whoever delivered the sensations, offered a reliable escape from life's pressures.

His wrinkled forehead reconnected with hers. “There’s already been enough pain between us.” Light earnest explained details of the rule, “But I reserve the right to grab that magnificent ass, and I might take an occasional nibble here and there, but no pain. If you want to get hurt, go practice in the training yard.”

She gazed up from under thick lashes and inhaled; her face relaxed, and she agreed. “Yes, my King.”

Alistair blinked, cherishing her reply, and allowing its essence to sink in. The authentic tone delivered three words and promised her total commitment, confidence, and faith in him as her protector; he grinned. “Rule seven: keep doing that. I like it when you do that.”

Caoilainn smirked and crooned another “yes, my King.” She tilted her head back against the tree, waiting for his next step.

Both hands found her waist, a half step back permitted momentum along with her compliance. In a quick motion, he turned her around to face the tree. A kiss on her clothed back coerced her head to turn to glance over her shoulder. She watched as he admired her form from behind. A hand cupped a muscular cheek of her rear.

“Rule eight: trust me,” he growled.

Caoilainn's body quivered, grateful adoration coursed through her veins. Extolling Alistair's direction, his certainty permitted her concerns to leave, replaced instead with freedom to savor their connectedness.

He squeezed her cheek harder, rougher with a satisfied grunt. In reply she moaned, frustrated with her limitations caused by clothing.

Alistair's head wandered to the other side of her neck, lips brushing skin, hot breath against her ear. “Rule nine: tell me if you don't like something I’m doing.”

“I like this, my King,” she whimpered, fleeting tension fled. Gooseflesh spread down her neck, tingling down her arms to her hands. She steadied herself on the tree.

“Rule ten: tell me what you want,” he ordered between kisses on her shoulders.

A giggling moan sounded, tempted by his affection, but amused at his last rule. “That was rule five.” Tactful teeth found her ear and nipped lightly on the cartilage. Her giggle lowered into a blissful sigh. “My King,” she added.

“Mm-hmm,” he sang. “You’re paying attention. That one is so important I said it twice. So, my love, what do you want?”

Decorum forgotten, responsibilities to the Wardens fled from her mind. Love brimmed, overflowing from every pore. Smiling lips buzzed pleasurably and Caoilainn whispered, “I want you, my King.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments mean so much to me! Please feel free to let me know what you think!
> 
> (Also, please know, I get that Caoilainn and Alistair's relationship has similarities to D/s dynamics but I am no way claiming to be an expert on the topic. I know each person's experiences with the lifestyle might be different.)


	5. Reconcile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair and Caoilainn reconcile. NSFW.
> 
> If you want a song... [Lose It- Oh Wonder](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VgwcPiCjQ-0)

Head bowed to the tree, elongating her spine, trapped between the trunk and Alistair limiting her movement. He caressed the length of her body with one hand. His other palm cupped her leather-clad buttocks.

Rough textures of grooved bark to her fingers contrasted his evocative touch. Desire made her knees weak, but his balance from behind combined with the stable tree trunk in front gave support.

Powerful, self-assured, this version of the man she married recalled all her dirty secrets, her most precarious regions, and managed them with confident ease. Vague outlines of his swollen length brushed against her.

Both had waited, unsure if they would make it through the conflict preceding this moment. Long held anger had boiled to the surface, polarizing the couple since leaving Skyhold. But longing for the other magnetized the King and Queen; there had been far too much time apart, and much to gain through healing. Their reunion required vulnerability, addressing instead of avoiding concerns, laying complaints and misdeeds out on the table. Surviving this turmoil satisfied a deep need for something essential within both, something beyond words.

“My Queen!” Alistair exclaimed with exaggeration before his tempting, teasing whisper blew hot breath on her neck. “You wouldn’t be suggesting the King and Queen of Ferelden make love under a tree in Orlais, would you?”

He interrupted Caoilainn's short-lived laugh with a soft nibble on her throat, causing the sound to morph to a lustful groan.

Senses gratefully overwhelmed by his attention, intoxicated by his humor, she replied, “Yes! Alistair. My King,” she laughed, moaning. "Fuck Orlais!”

Alistair’s grin broadened. A toothy smile stretched his cheeks. “Oh, Caoilainn,” he laughed and pretended to wipe a tear from his eye. “That has to be one of the most brilliant things you have ever said. I couldn’t possibly deny such a poetic proposal.”

A distant concern for onlookers sparked the tilt of his head to check the path they had walked for passersby. Eyes adjusted well enough to the dark, and the sky lit well enough by stars, he saw no movement in their vicinity. Kisses on fabric no longer did justice. The salacious urge to undress countered only by the exhibitionistic risks of this meeting place. Both knew that if their privacy were secured, the build-up would not have lasted this long.

Though Alistair wanted to be with her, he relished the opportunity to stretch out this tension. Whether as payback for the years he spent waiting for her, or because it made for far more rapturous release, making Caoilainn wait for him always transcended expectations. Her controlling, worry-prone behavior in check by his confidence. It gave him immense satisfaction.

Caoilainn’s head leaned back, breathing in lustful relief, contrasting her heart’s nervous flutter. The clear night sky provided visibility, and it heightened the risk of being caught the longer they took to consummate their reconciliation. But her concern with potential consequences was diminished by his light-hearted demeanor and levity.

A mischievous grin on attentive lips followed the contours of her ear while he worked. His purposeful hands wandered to her sides, slow motions unbuckled the appropriate straps by muscle memory. He hiked up the fabric of her armor from necessity and desperate want. His boldness required endurance, but it was always well worth it. Patience was always rewarded.

Her eager nerves tingled from his undivided attention; she acquiesced to his non-verbal prompts, allowing the outer layer of armor to come off with ease. Unconcerned, he dropped the clothing to the ground beside them before his hands resumed their mission. Traveling up the loose fabric of her undertunic, one hand found her breast, sneaking underneath her bra, while the other dragged along the leather of her pants. She let out an exhale; her forearm found the tree and she rests her head on it as he continued to fondle her from behind.

A wandering hand traveled from her rear to her hip bone. His frame hugged her closer. Efforts to improve connection through fabric defined his erection, restricted by his breeches, hard against her ass. He held her close, seconds dragging, desire building. The last thing he wanted was to rush this intimacy.

Feeling him, needing him sparked too much fervor. Wanton, she lost herself. Distracted by the lustful heat between her legs, her patience broke with this added sensation. Caoilainn's back arched, aligning herself with his hard member, pressing back, inviting him. She needed him to know what she wanted, fearing that if they didn’t act soon, the opportunity would vanish. It overrode her faith in him, her urgency took priority.

Alistair's seductive laugh tormented her, “Always so eager!”

He backed away from her rear to put space between them, needing it just as much for himself. Power exchanged by placement of bodies, Alistair reclaimed authority over Caoilainn’s anxious nature.

A whining cry released, Caoilainn's forehead lifted from her arm and she looked over her shoulder. Frustrated with craving for him, she begged, “Stop teasing me! I want you now.”

“Bossy, as usual,” his humor persisted. A hand traveled from her breast and his gentle arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her back to him. The other palm maintained firm navigation of her hips. “I thought we agreed on these rules, my Queen. Do you dislike what I'm doing?” Alistair lightly chided.

“No,” her slow reply carried an implicit ‘but.’

Before she could extend a complaint, Alistair followed with another question. “And you still trust me?”

Instinct brought her arm over his, and her body relaxed. His sureness soothed when she paid attention, foregoing rigidity for willing surrender.

A graceful smile spread across her face, her head retired to the side as his chin rested on her shoulder. Her other arm brushed the tree to steady herself. She took intention to absorb the comfort he offered freely.

Doubt faded, Caoilainn's body melted more into his embrace. Feet still planted on the ground, body upright by the support of the tree, Caoilainn’s shoulders eased. “I do, my King,” she sighed.

“Then don't rush me, my dear.” Both knew the term ‘dear’ was used as a playful expression of his annoyance. Faint pressure applied at her hip bone gave a unique feeling. With no pain or ill intent, it gave a sensory reminder of his direction.

His reminder suggested the relinquishment of her anxiety, pacifying her nerves. “Yes, my King,” she purred, thankful for the clarity of his actions.

“Good,” approval of her reply resonated. “Then relax, my love. Trust me.” He mumbled lovingly as he shifted her weight away from the tree. The desire to enjoy rather than hurry their reunion propelled his demands. After years of resentment for the affair, he acknowledged the need to pace himself- to be clear this act sprang from love and not shallow appetence. Her trust in him, visible in her relaxation in his arms offered him security and faith in her commitment.

She leaned back, and he held tighter. Alistair’s arm traveled from her hip around her chest, enveloping. The two swayed ever so gently in silence. Lids closed, peaceful embrace held under the starlight speckling between the tree’s limbs. Each moment encouraged her leisure.

Satisfied with her ease, Alistair hummed a sound simultaneously pleased and pestered. His lips hovered and kissed the contours of her ear before murmuring, “You're wearing far too many layers of clothes, my Queen.”

She gave an absent-minded moan of agreement with his assessment. Lost in reverie, her urgency lessened, replaced with delight in his company. His reminder of their goal made her stomach tighten with excitement. Her thumb rose to her mouth and she bit down.

Aware of her reaction, Alistair’s nose found the crook of her neck, calming her by nestling into the soft skin. He gave a loving bite, as his deft fingers reached the laces of her breeches, loosening them while Caoilainn leaned on him. A happy whimper escaped her.

With her breeches looser, Alistair’s arm reached back around her chest, steadying her toward him. He allowed the round curve of her ass to cushion his swelled length, growing more frustrated by the limitations of his breeches. His other palm pressed at her pelvic bone and slid down. The involuntary roll of Caoilainn’s hips made necessary space for his fingers to slip into her heat.

Soaked, aching, she gasped at his touch. Her body recognized him. Acclimating to his calloused fingers exploring the familiar grounds of her wet folds, she steadied her breathing. Caoilainn closed her eyes; her heart continued to pound.

Alistair blinked at the feel of her slickness against his fingers. He would always find the sensation novel: the initial feeling her wetness whenever they engaged. Another blink flickered as she moaned in response to him. That would never get old either.

His digits curved, curling into her core, and he shuddered, pleased with her body’s welcome of him. Thick, swollen walls waited. He hugged tighter around her chest, and his fingers slid out and up to her bundle of nerves. Slow drags teased around the center until he heard her whine. It made for a satisfying signal: she had bided his torture long enough. He smiled and targeted the firm and sensitive nub with his middle finger.

She held her breath in anticipation and gasped when he found her. Both her arms reached out to the tree in front of them. Slow to start, he adjusted with her legs’ involuntary twitches until her moans became patterned. He sped up; light and knowledgeable pulsing made her climb; her body reaching peaks of a climax effortlessly.

The sound of her moans increased the swelling in his breeches, and the tempting contour of her rear intensified his needs. Though he loved to delay her climax when the mood called for it, he wanted to hear her finish. He wanted to be inside her. The ambition for their connection prompted his order. Alistair whispered in her ear, “Come, my Queen.”

The distant thought to ask for permission allayed with three words. A simple order gave her freedom to release without hesitation. The quick pulsing motions changed to small circles, pushing her. Her breath stopped, and she groaned his name, _“Alistair.”_ The arch of her back increased; her mouth gaped, brows furrowed as she convulsed in his arms.

Despite her wriggling, Alistair maintained his motions until her convulsions ceased. She turned her head to him. Their lips met for a gratified kiss, and Alistair’s hands traveled to the facets of his clothes while their tongues swirled. Hurried movements reflected drive; shared consent to harmonize desire. The outer layers of his armor came off quickly and dropped with hers. Kisses rewarded the removal of each portion of his attire until he was left standing in his under-tunic and breeches.

She swiveled her upper body to kiss him fully while Alistair’s hands worked to unlace his breeches. He groaned as he freed himself, his length releasing from the restraint of leather, brushing along the skin of her partially exposed ass. A final kiss, followed by a grinning nod issued her to turn back toward the tree. She nodded back with a sultry smile and followed his order. Facing the tree, she held still as he shimmied her breeches further down her thighs.

Stable fingers supported her neck. Eager, ready, her back arched to him. Leaning forward, she felt the warmth of him near her. Her heart raced, expectant.

He took a deep breath wanting to appreciate this moment. Calming himself with his inhale, he heard her breath echo his. Together, they prepared for this naughty moment’s culmination, combining the couple’s healing with lust. They took another breath together, then he guided himself between her legs and entered.

Simultaneous shudders responded- another feeling that would never lose its novelty. Alistair retracted slowly and thrust, fueling their connection through warranted adoration. He praised her from inside and she received, returning his affection with grateful squeezes and low moans.

His hand stabilized himself at her hip as his motions became steady. Concern for angles irrelevant from this position, he focused on depth.

Hips rocking, smacking collisions brought him further, allowing more mutual understanding. It didn’t take long for her cries to grow louder.

She deliberately tightened around him, hugging him, holding him close. Gratified, appreciative and longing for more, each time he slid in and out it made her nerves stand on end. Another climax approached, building from deep within her vibrating core. Body tightened, her toes curled as it intensified. She cried his name in a breathy whisper, lauding the masterful execution of each of his thrusts.

Grunts turned to groans, heavy breathing accented by his vocals. He groaned her name, “ _Caoilainn.”_ Nearing his finish, his balls tightened, preparing for release, he wanted to extend their time. But they had both waited so long, and each time she tightened around him he felt himself slipping.

“Hold on,” she murmured through moans. Her hand touched his to suggest him to stop.

He slowed his thrusts, confused, reorienting himself with the world outside of pleasure.

“Hmmm?” He asked in a lazy mumble, finding his gaiety in spite of the intense moment.

“I want to see you, my King,” she mumbled back.

He smiled. “Now _that_ is a splendid idea, my Queen,” he replied, blinking as he pulled himself from her.

Without waiting for order or direction from Alistair, she removed her boots and pulled off her pants. Alistair watched her moving, agile and ardent, admiring her figure and speed as she took off her clothes. Her tunic stayed on and she turned to face him.

Small steps back to the tree, he resumed his stance, but now she faced him. Pinning her back to the tree, he lifted her leg and held it, hovering to give him room. The other hand diligently guided himself back inside of her, and again they shuddered in unison.

Both smiled, relieved, comfortable with the familiarity. Searching fingers found his broad chest, applying pressure to him. Alistair’s hips rocked harder into Caoilainn’s, again rebuilding speed.

They watched each other, keeping eye contact between slow blinks. Her silvery-blue eyes intent on his hazel gaze, determined to get what she wanted, to see him. To watch his fervor, his shudders and groans in response to her walls surrounding him. Her satisfaction built too, she grabbed his shirt and moaned. Each new depth he found strengthened the involuntary wrinkle of her eyebrows; her pleasured expression abandoning all composure.

Alistair’s free hand found hers. Prying her fingers from his shirt, he laced his digits with hers and brought them over her head, resting against the tree. Their foreheads touched. Her ashen blonde hair grazed his face. Concentrated rocking unified, eyes locked ardently. Synced motions built pressure. She flexed, her body tightening again as she climbed to the well-earned finish. His thrusts became firmer, more deliberate.

The changes in his motion overwhelmed her senses. The challenge to keep her eyes open was too much. She squeezed them shut; her breath catching as her climax grew near. Unable to stay focused, she hissed.

“Watch me,” Alistair ordered through a groan; his head tilting to hers, his lips tickling her cheek.

The movement of her lips inaudibly formed the words ‘ _yes, my King_.’ She gave a blissfully pitiful sob and opened her eyes to watch his lids flutter toward freckled cheeks. The prominent vein in his forehead hinted he was close.

His hand at her hip tightened, pulling her onto him, watching her with a resolute stare. She gazed back, her mouth gaping, affected by his insistence. With a few determined thrusts, lunging even further, he rasped her name. Their gaze held as he pulsed hard from within, spilling inside of her. His throbbing brought her over the edge.

The climax hit, powerful, intense, and long. Her shoulders rose to her ears; she pressed her forehead to his. Layers of sensation washed over from within resulting from his influence; she watched his gaze with exaltation, awed by the euphoria he gave. This time, her more than audible acclaim of “Alistair!” echoed through the silence. Coming together in shared ecstasy: a parable of their design, promising infinite love and dedication.

They held positions until their heart rates slowed and their breathing calmed. Then Alistair pulled himself from Caoilainn. Laughing, blushing, the two put their clothes on, acknowledging the delinquent quality of the activities that transpired. The casual donning of their attire resulted from knowledge their clothes would quickly come back off when they reached Alistair’s tent.

“I’d say we showed Orlais well enough,” Alistair chuckled as he handed Caoilainn a boot. “If that’s what you want to call what we just did.”

She pulled the boot on and left it loose. Grinning up at him, punch drunk on their escapades, she replied, “That is _exactly_ what I want to call it.” She stood up and stepped to him, reaching over his shoulders for a hug. His arms fell around her waist. “I love you, my King,” she said with a smile.

“I love you too, my Queen,” he requited her smile.

Late into the night, reaching early morning, the pair made it back to the Inquisition camp and to Alistair’s tent. With no suggestion from the other, they threw their clothes to the ground the moment his tent flap closed. Lovemaking continued, now with more freedom to appreciate the other’s attributes in a variety of ways until they found rest. Well indulged, bodies entwined, deep sleep followed the evening of intimacy.

When daybreak neared, Caoilainn woke gasping, stifling an inconvenient coughing fit. She found her handkerchief tucked in a pocket of her gambeson and held to her mouth, clearing her throat.

A sleepy question came from Alistair as he sat up to see her coughing.

“Was it a nightmare? The Calling?” He asked with concern and yawned. “I get them every once in awhile too.”

Caoilainn caught her breath and rubbed at the tender spot on her chest. “Not this time,” she answered, tempted to remain unforthcoming. She chose instead to elaborate. “Just a nightmare I’ve had since the battle.”

Oriented with his surroundings, he discerned the handkerchief in her hand. Spotting the red, his eyes widened. He took the cloth from her, glancing at it and her face. “What is this?” He asked, sitting up straighter, brows furrowed.

Caoilainn stared back in silence, frowning, unable to find words. Disquiet prevented her response. The lingering pain in her chest a reminder of what incited his question.

“What aren’t you telling me, Caoilainn? We said no secrets.” His question accused her as his forehead creased, sight traveling between her and the blood stained cloth. She recognized his panic, worry, masked behind irritation.

Stubborn tears pooled, and she reached for the cloth. “It’s nothing,” she mumbled. Alistair pulled the handkerchief from her reach. “My body's still healing.”

His head shook quickly, spurning her minimizing reply. “Caoilainn, coughing up blood is not a sign of a healing body. How long has this been happening?”

“It started a few days after the battle,” she murmured, realizing her illogical thought process as she said it out loud. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment, shamed again by her own carelessness.

“Damn it, Caoilainn,” he tossed her handkerchief on her lap. Head lowered, his fingers pinched the bridge of his nose. “We need to find the witch.”

“Morrigan is with the Inquisitor. She’ll get to Skyhold after we return. I’m sorry,” she answered, helpless, attempting to supplicate him with her apology. “I’m sorry, Alistair. I didn’t tell you because I was trying to wait it out.”

“You,” he let out a derisive laugh, angry tears welling in his eyes. “You know it doesn’t work like that.”

“I’ll talk to Philippa,” she offered, taking his hands into her own. Brows lifted, beseeching his stability. “I’ll be okay, Alistair.”

With a deep breath, he calmed his anger, frustration faded to fear. He pulled her close, arms bound around her. His whisper trembled in her ear, “I can’t lose you again.”

She gave a feeble nod and nestled into him. Her back to his, they laid down. Both knew their efforts to find more sleep would be fruitless. Filled with wordless dread, frustrated with his wife’s myopic thinking, Alistair breathed in her scent, seeking to ease his fear with her presence. Caoilainn felt the knot in her stomach tighten, articulating the dulling pain in her chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know I love to read what you think in the comments <3
> 
> And please also remember- I am in no way claiming to be an expert of D/s relationships and I respect that everyone's experience with these dynamics may look different. Just here to share the DA love.  
>   
> I'm putting this chapter out a few days early bc it pairs with the last one. The next chapter will not come out until next week. Thank you for reading!


	6. Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The march continues. Caoilainn consults with Philippa. NSFW section. (Warning: NSFW art at the end) [Making Love on the Mountain by the Woodlands](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1cOqr7JG3Uw) is the song that comes to mind for that part.

_“Caoilainn, sit up,” Eleanor Cousland hissed before her voice rose to a dulcet tone, annunciating select words to emphasize their significance. “Join our guests who’ve traveled all the way_ _from Amaranthine!”_

_Caoilainn sat near the window of the banquet hall, peering out to the activity of Castle Cousland. She made a quiet scoff and rolled her eyes over to the activity at the silk-clothed table. Her mother sat at her side while a noble woman who was busy sewing, a girl a few years older than Caoilainn, and a boy sat across from them. Silver dishes polished to perfection filled with small treats spread in the space between them. Steam rose from the teacup in front of each patron in the banquet hall._

_Caoilainn recognized the other girl as Delilah Howe. Eleanor’s well-known and expected salons occurred multiple times a year since before Caoilainn was born. The Howe family: Delilah and Thomas and their governess made regular attendance. Thomas, never interested in the soirees, spent the entire time wolfing pastries and concentrating his tea with sugar cubes. The eldest brother Nathaniel never joined, exempt from the salons, and deemed old enough to play with Fergus instead of trifling over small talk._

_“I noticed your older brother didn't join Rendon,” Eleanor asked Delilah, startling the girl from the blank stare she gave her tea._

_Delilah jumped. “Oh, um, yes. Well, he went to the Free Marches for training,” she mumbled her timid response with wide eyes._

_Caoilainn’s ears perked at word ‘training’, joining curiosity to hear what would be said of the status of Fergus’ old playmate, Nathaniel._

_Eleanor’s brows furrowed, questioning the response she received from the Howe girl. “All the way to the Marches? I’m sure Bryce could have found a place for him with our soldiers or Maric with the Royal Army. It will be much too difficult for him to find a potential wife up there.”_

_Delilah made a side glance to her governess. The woman over-dedicated to her needlework, blocked out the surrounding conversation with vigor. Acknowledging this as freedom to respond, Delilah’s eyes grew larger as she murmured, “Father insisted.”_

_Loaded words, Eleanor’s puzzled glance made an abrupt change when it traveled to Caoilainn. She had returned to staring out the window at the Highever soldiers training in the yard._

_“Young lady!” Eleanor whispered to Caoilainn. “Your father and I agreed to let you train with our soldiers as long as you joined my salons with full attention.”_

_Caoilinn rolled her eyes and huffed, “aye, aye captain,” mocking her mother's history at sea, and scooted her seat to the table. The sound of the legs of the chair scraping against the ground echoed through the room._

_Eleanor gave a tight-lipped smile toward their guests. “Caoilainn is following in our footsteps. She’s young, but we decided she could train with our guards. Our little shield-maiden.”_

_“Mom,” Caoilainn scoffed. “I don’t use a shield. You know that.” Pinky extended, she added a cube of sugar to her tea and gave it a poignant stir._

* * *

Kicking herself for her obdurate tendencies, Caoilainn returned to the Wardens as the camps packed the next morning. Alistair's behavior, distant and detached compared to the romantic evening they shared revealed his state of mind. She recognized the look of someone whose thoughts took them twenty steps ahead in every possible direction; someone whose fears multiplied to every possible worst-case scenario. It created a sense of urgency; she needed to fix her mistake.

She hadn't considered what her coughing might signify, or its connection to her fatigue. Ignoring subtle signs of injury had long since been her habit. With a multitude of concerns for Caoilainn to harbor worry, her health seldom made the list. And now she paid for it. The pain in her chest more pronounced, and the coughing more frequent. Blood, which seemed to have some magical swirls within it found its way from her body when her coughing fits strengthened. Red lyrium, she assumed, when considering the enemy that caused the injury.

The camp finished packing, Grey Wardens worked together to pack the camp on time. Caoilainn caught sight of Nathaniel and his newest bedmate in the midst of what might have been an argument. _Did not see that coming,_ Caoilainn snickered to herself as she observed their bickering then went to find Philippa.

The sorceress, the Wardens most skilled mage, held vast knowledge and a small library of tomes she brought with her on quests. Noble born from Highever, Philippa, trained in the Circle, carried an affinity for alternative forms of magic.

“Philippa, I need to speak with you in private,” Caoilainn asserted as she neared the woman who had just finished giving an order to her apprentice to move her chest of books to a cart of supplies.

She turned on her feet to face Caoilainn. “Tsk, tsk,” Philippa tutted. “Now is not the time for us to dilly dally, Caoilainn. The camp needs to be packed so we can get out of this Maker forsaken country.”

Age and wisdom also seemed to give Philippa the notion she could address those of all ranks in whatever fashion she pleased.

“It’s Commander,” Caoilainn corrected.

“Whatever,” Philippa answered with disinterest, her attention returning to Aidan who came back for another order.

“The camp is nearly packed, Philippa. We can walk and talk at the same time.” The explanation covered Caoilainn’s annoyance with Philippa’s recurring assumption she knew what the army needed more than their Commander. “Alone,” Caoilainn eyed Aidan who hovered behind them as they took steps to join the body of moving soldiers heading out for a day’s trek through the Dales.

“Ah, my dear Caoilainn-”

“Commander.”

“Whatever,” Philippa waved her hand as she spoke and gestured toward her pupil. He walked on one side of the sorceress, Caoilainn walked on the other. “Aidan is my assistant! He goes where I go, he hears what I hear. Should you not wish that why did you give me an apprentice in need of such extensive individual attention?”

Caoilainn observed Aidan’s confused frown responding to Philippa's insults.

“I gave you no orders for you to take him as your apprentice, Philippa. That was your choice. Aidan's trained in the same Circle as you. He was one of the most skilled mages in his cohort,” Caoilainn lobbied on Aidan’s behalf until she realized the wasted breath of trying to reason with the sorceress. A measured gaze and astute eyes, Caoilainn scanned the two mages before her. “Fine, he can join. But I’ll need both of you sworn to secrecy.”

“Yes, Commander,” Aidan replied and bowed his head.

“Of course, Ca-” Philippa started but caught the threatening flash in Caoilainn’s eyes before she finished. “Commander.”

“Good,” the Commander nodded to both of them, her lips in an authoritative frown. She collected her thoughts while they walked. The soldiers around them all preoccupied with their own conversations or tasks as they marched. Palpable exhaustion shown on drained faces, tired from the repetitive task of walking seeming to have no end.

“Well,” Philippa rushed. “What is it, dear? I don’t have all day.”

Ignoring the sorceress’ insolence, Caoilainn responded after collecting her thoughts. Desperate for help, urgent to continue on her path of reconciliation with Alistair, she explained. “I need advice, or healing, or a potion. I don’t know. Since the battle, I’ve been… coughing blood. And I think there’s a magical element to it related to the injury I sustained.”

“Your sense of the obvious is quite keen,” Philippa rolled her eyes and put a hand on her hip. She waved her hand to imitate a bow toward the Commander. “I’m so glad we have one as bright as yourself in command. An unusual enemy impaled you, not a nick from some genlock's filthy axe."

“Thank you,” Caoilainn responded, her irritation with Philippa’s condescension growing. The woman had a knack for challenging authority; it had led to past incidences of the women butting heads. “I discerned as much. What do I do about it?”

“I’m so glad you asked!” As pretentious as Philippa’s exaggerated enthusiasm appeared, Caoilainn found gratitude. It suggested the sorceress had some idea of how to heal her. “Aidan, fetch my tome,” she pointed to a pile of large volumes on a cart near them. Aidan walked to follow her order. “No, not that one. You know the one I want. Yes. There. That’s it. Bring it here.”

Aidan brought the oversized book to Philippa, who maneuvered to open the pages while the three walked. Aidan checked over his shoulder, forced to walk backward as Philippa licked her thumb to flip through pages of the book he carried. Caoilainn observed Aidan’s technique at walking backward with detached intrigue.

Philippa tapped her finger to her lip as she skimmed a page. “There’s nothing in here about red lyrium. But from what I can tell, it’s tainted. It makes it almost non-magical, leeching energy instead of providing it. Did the wound leave a scar?” The sorceress looked to her side with curiosity as Caoilainn walked beside her.

Caoilainn nodded. The question Philippa posed heightened Caoilainn’s worry. “Yes, and it hurts. The scar is swollen.” She pointed to the location of the scar on her chest.

“Remind me why you waited this long to talk to me?” Philippa scolded, the furrow of her brows and her cocky tone speaking layers of disappointment. Without waiting for an answer to the question, she asked another. “There may be some reaction between the taint in your blood and the tainted lyrium. Are you feeling tired?”

Caoilainn nodded. “I am. I won’t turn into one of those Red Templars, will I?”

  
Philippa let out an abrupt laugh. “No! Dear girl, it’s just a tiny bit in your lung. Fragments must have broken off the arm of that fool who stabbed you. Being a Warden is probably what's saving you now.” She pointed to the location of the scar Caoilainn identified. “You didn’t swallow the red lyrium and as far as I know, you weren’t a Templar before you were our Commander, were you?”

Head shaking in response, Caoilainn walked without speaking, waiting for Philippa to continue.

“But if she was healed magically, wouldn’t the red lyrium have fused?” Aidan piped up, glancing behind him as he continued. “It will take more to heal her.”

“Such a smart lad,” Philippa crooned and winked to Aidan. Unable to tell if she gave him honest praise or derided Aidan’s deduction, Caoilainn watched the odd exchange between them. Philippa addressed Caoilainn in her response. “It’s true, my dear. A powerful mage healed you and inadvertently sealed in the red lyrium. We’ll need a few talented mages to purge it from your lungs.”

“Does quantity not make up for power?” Caoilainn pondered aloud to the sorceress, proposing a solution that would require less patience and preparation. “Between the Wardens and the Inquisition, we have plenty of magical strength.”

“Tut, tut,” Philippa scolded Caoilainn’s short-sightedness and lack of understanding. “Magic is rarely so simple. You should know this by now. I must consult with the mage who revived you. I do not have all the answers for you yet, but I have ideas. We certainly cannot perform the ceremony until we reach Skyhold.” She reached into her pouch and grabbed a small vial. “Until then, put a drop of this under your tongue at night. It will help you sleep through the nightmares and reduce the coughing.”

The bottle glowed a dull green and smelled of royal elfroot, and something sweet Caoilainn couldn’t place. It felt warm in her palm, radiating a magical energy. Heat ran from the bottle through to her heart, comforting her similar to being wrapped in a warm blanket. She broke her reverie with the tiny bottle and tucked it away in her pack to save for later. Trusting Philippa and knowing not to ask questions of her resident sorceress’ intentions would fair better than fostering doubt. The mission for now: getting back to Skyhold.

* * *

Sprawled on Nathaniel’s warm body, a leg splayed over him, and her hand flat on his chest, Hale recognized her location when her eyes opened before daybreak. Nate's tent, where she spent every night since they first slept together, had become her regular resting place. With no conversation, both under the assumption she would sleep there, Hale left her tent vacant.

Not that she minded. She enjoyed being around him. Their silent understanding of the other’s frame of mind, shared humor despite their differences, she felt safe with him; unlike anything she'd experienced with anyone. Safety, often equated with drab and uneventful, had not been her goal when she pursued the Lieutenant.

In bed, he was incredible. Nathaniel knew how to do things in ways she’d never imagined. Years of promiscuity hadn't prepared Hale for what Nate did each night they spent together. And she had impressed him a few times, taking advantage of her flexibility and nimble reflexes. Encounters became games, nightly adventures of tangling bodies, laughter, and lustful moans, always building to an intense crescendo. These meetings only grew more heated, wild since Nathaniel's conversation with Caoilainn.

Her stomach tightened as she recalled the way he looked at her last night. After a span of wrestling, Hale came out on top. Straddling his lap, she propped herself up with one hand behind her as she rolled her hips onto him. Nate sat up, facing her, watching her move. She pulled him closer with her free hand grabbing his neck. Filling herself with him, Nate groaned, reacting to Hale's steady motions.

Supple breasts bounced making a pleasant distraction. Appreciative, Nate pawed at one and just as he did, his eyes and hand wandered to her face. Curved fingers brushed her cheek, moving her concentrated gaze up from watching his length reappear each time her hips undulated. Her lips parted as she met his deep grey stare; Sheer adulation seeped through. His eyes adored the lovely creature moving on top of him before his hand tilted her head to the side, cradling her pointed ear. Their lips met for a deep kiss. She had acclimated to the buzz of the Grey Warden bond by then, but it felt unique with him, and the kiss surged its strength through her body. Nathaniel venerated the huntress with a deeper connection than the casual sex in which they engaged.

She liked it. Too much. It felt special; she felt special to him. The moment intimated emotions far beyond any she had experienced before or had an interest in investing as it replayed in her mind. Loaded with catches, the double-edges of feelings this personal threatened what she perceived as freedom. Suspicion gnawed at Hale; the thought of being a revenge fuck for Nate irritated her, but she didn't know why. She determined a need to clear her head, so she rose, dressed, and left his tent before he woke.

To hunt: the best way she knew how to quiet her mind. Climbing rocks to higher ground and nocking an arrow. Waiting. Listening. Breath steadied with measured inhalation, she watched for prey- wandering game, nugs or some equivalent she could take back on her own. Many halla crossed her path. As much distance as she placed between herself and the Dalish, she couldn't bring herself to kill one. After some time two pig like creatures she didn't recognize wandered into her sight. In her years hunting between Ferelden and the Free Marches, she had never witnessed this mammal. Short tusks and stubby legs, she found them quite unattractive as they sniffed the ground for edible grasses.

A few moments to study the animals’ habits, she opted to loose her arrow. The quick kill caused the other creature to run. Hale didn’t chase it. Instead, she climbed down the rocks to collect her game and make her way back to help pack camp.

“You should have woken me.” Packing his extra armor and clothes into a bag and strapping it with his other belongings, Nathaniel mumbled to Hale as she walked into his tent with her prize. “I would have gone with you.”

Rising to an empty tent startled him that morning, having grown accustomed to waking prior to Hale. It gave him time to appreciate silence and allowed his questions surrounding the woman's recurring presence to resonate. He assumed the huntress would at least tell him if she left before him. Bothered that she hadn’t considered him, and he realized an equal disappointment in himself for expecting more. _She's nothing more than a friendly diversion from work,_ he reminded himself.

Hale joined in collecting her own belongings to pack them into her bag. Nate rolled his bedroll.

“Mate,” she responded, pausing her motion to give him a dead stare. “Lay off, yeah? I like a quiet hunt on my own. You know what that’s like.” She went back to her task at of gathering stray pieces of her armor mixed with his.

Hunting in solitude had long since been Hale’s refuge, available to her wherever she went. The activity brought her energy, peace of mind; company only dampened the experience. Enjoying the Lieutenant’s presence would not change the value of this private, meditative activity.

“I do,” Nathaniel agreed, recognizing the solace in hunting alone from his many years as a scout. But the young woman stirred an unfamiliar sensation. A desire to be near and to witness her in action, joining her side in a shared element. He continued the explanation, masking his desire with a shallow worry for her safety. “But we don’t know the area. It was an unnecessary risk.”

Hale grinned as she slung her pack on her shoulder. The pair stepped out of his cleared tent. Nate kicked dirt on the nearby campfire with his boot. “I know,” her brow arched, “that’s what makes it so sodding fun. Nate, I’m a big girl. Been hunting since I was this tall," she lowered her flat hand a few feet from the ground, "and I don't need no one getting their knickers in a twist about it.”

He shook his head, responding to her devilish grin with a smirk, recognizing the twinkle in her eye at the thrill of danger, and appreciating her rebellious nature in stating his name. But his expression changed as her statement continued. By the end, he frowned. Accused of getting his ‘knickers in a twist’ sat the wrong way, discrediting his concern.

“Damn it, Hale,” he grumbled, finishing with the extinguished campfire and walking to face her. “I don't have my _knickers_ in a twist. I don't want you venturing out telling no one. There could be bandits or rabid animals. You’re still a member of this army; if you're gone someone needs to know.”

“You mean you,” she snapped back, crossing her arms over her chest, her voice rising. She glared up at him, “You wanna make sure you fucking know if I'm gone.”

Nate froze; his face reddened. _Yes, I do._ The initial response to her question rested on the tip of his tongue, but he knew verbalizing it would cause more damage. Risking divulging more than he wanted about how much he thought of her. Instead, he scowled silently before growling, “No.”

“Then?” Hale’s arms uncrossed and planted firmly on her hips. “Why’s it matter so sodding much to you, _Lieutenant?_ ” She lowered her voice and eyed the others packing their tents nearby, “You think ‘cause we plough I got to report every move to you? Or is it ‘cause of my age?”

The question lingered and Nate didn't have a clear answer. He scanned those walking by to see if they overheard. Technically, he could order Hale to report whenever he wanted considering his rank, but he refused to abuse his authority for selfish reasons. Doing so would force him to admit stronger feelings for the huntress than he cared to acknowledge. Now he walked a fine line between being overbearing and too lenient

“No,” he grumbled, securing any urge to explain his reasoning beneath his stoicism. “Just forget it.”

“Yeah.” Hale lowered her arms, and shifted on her feet, “let’s forget about it.”

When she finished talking, she grabbed her bow, left her kill, and departed to pack her own tent.

Each night, she insisted on setting up her own place in camp. ‘ _So no one suspects anything,’_ she gave as her explanation. He respected her requirement, hoping to avoid suspicions from the other Wardens. But Nathaniel surmised her insistence arose from deeper concerns than others’ opinions.  

He watched her walk away.

 

 

 

 

  
[Botticella](http://botticella89.tumblr.com/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear the march back is almost over! We're almost back to Skyhold. Also- Philippa is totally inspired by Philippa from the Witcher, in case you hadn't guessed.
> 
> Please, please let me know what you think of the story so far in the comments.


	7. Quarrels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected meeting is called when the march returns to Skyhold.

Weeds flattened to the ground by the mass of soldiers on foot and horseback. Through the Exalted Plains, the expedition persevered. The Inquisition's massive army trekked almost uninterrupted through open land. Any enemy blocking the march met soldiers capable of eradicating them with minimal effort.

Like clockwork, at dusk they set camp and each morning camp broke with the same succinctness. Night after night, the armies traveled through the Dales to the Emprise du Lion. Tepid days and cool nights changed to a steady chill. The frigid climate took its toll, shortened daylight hours made for shorter days of marching. But the urge to stay warm and escape of the icy environment compelled everyone to move faster.

* * *

 

 _“So you’re telling me you have magical fragments of the enemy fused in your lung… and it’s not a big deal?”_ _Alistair questioned, frustrated with Caoilainn's nonchalant attitude._

_Caoilainn informed Alistair of her conversation with Philippa when she joined him for the evening, leaving the Wardens’ camp to join him in his tent. Her brow arched, annoyed with his question._

_“It’s non-magical. And it’s nothing, Alistair,” she waved off his question and occupied herself with removing her outer layer of armor. “Philippa didn’t seem worried. She plans to meet with Fiona to discuss a ceremony to remove the red lyrium.”_

_“Oh!” Alistair’s arms rose in the air as he turned on his heels. Pacing, he looked to Caoilainn to accent key points of his speech. “Great. A ceremony. Done by the mage who miscalculated the power needed for her genius plan in the Arbor Wilds, meeting with the mage who accidentally_ _trapped this red stuff in your body. That is a splendid idea.”_

_She pulled her tabard over her head and tossed it onto his cot. “Do you have something better?” Shaking her head, Caoilainn pressed him for an answer._

_“Well, no.” He sighed, paces coming to a halt._

_Patient steps carried her toward him. She took his hand into hers, her thumb rubbed the top of his palm. Her silvery-blue gaze soothed the worry in his hazel stare. “Look, Fiona saved my life. And I trust Philippa.”_

_“Uh-huh,” he grumbled, rolling his eyes as his shoulders relaxed. “You always trust these mages way too much, if you ask me.”_

_Her lips curved, an amused smile responding to his evaluation. “I didn’t ask, my King.” Caoilainn’s hand reached to his cheek and rested, appreciating the texture of his stubble on her palm. “But I’m glad to have you with me.”_

* * *

 

Thoughts of their conversation lingered in Alistair’s mind. An explicit agreement for honesty, secrets known to be hazardous to their sanctum, Caoilainn gave Alistair what little detail Philippa shared. Displeased with the news, Alistair’s doubt and distrust of magic boiled. But in this case, Caoilainn’s stubbornness calmed him in its own way. Decisiveness recognized as confidence settled fears of the unknown; it reminded him what captivated him about her. Furthermore, Caoilainn's coughing fits subsided, nightmares disappeared, Philippa's potion did as promised.

Trotting side by side on horseback for significant portions of the march, and sharing the same tent each night, the royal couple’s openness placed value on shared time. Working to uplift one another rather than give up in despair to the dangers ahead. Arguments diminished, conflicts resolved with less effort and the renewed shared perspective strengthened their connection.

Communication found a different form for Nathaniel and Hale. Short, fiery spats often extinguished by fervid trysts, neither addressed the recurring themes of these incidents. Rather, when quarrels escalated in severity, yelling ensued, then the pair retreated. The two took turns backing out of conflict before either stated the truth of their concern.

* * *

 

_“Said he bet I shot like a girl,” Hale reflected on an event in the alienage when she was a child. Nate and Hale walked through the snowy ground of the Emprise late in the evening. She invited Nathaniel to hunt with her with the rationale of catching larger prey. Bows in hand, the pair kept their senses tuned through the conversation._

_Nate hummed, glancing at the proud huntress beaming at his side. Her story reminded him of a fond memory: an impromptu competition he had with an elven woman in the Marches long before his conscription to the Wardens. “Let me guess, you showed him how a girl can shoot.”_

_“Bet yer arse I did,” she stroked the smooth wood of her bow and plucked the newly strung cord. “Wanker didn’t ‘spect me to cut his time in half and split his arrow on the last shot.”_

_“I would’ve liked to have seen that.” Nate stepped over a snow-covered log, keeping his attention on Hale._

_“So, what were you like as a kid?” Hale smiled to him and squinted her eyes before pondering aloud. “Lemme guess. A sweet, little noble boy- always did what yer dad told you; never once even thought about breaking rules.”_

_“Hah, not quite,” Nate smirked at Hale’s projection of him as a child. The smile faded as he recalled aspects of his past. "The truth? I couldn’t do anything right in my father’s eyes. I did what he said most of the time. And when I broke rules, I suffered for it. He said all of it would make me a better man.” Unfocused, he stared ahead. “For the longest time I believed him....” Nate’s sentence trailed off._

_Hale’s cheeks flushed, regretting the question she asked and the direction he took. She hurried to lighten the mood, “Well, I like the man you are now.” Nate’s eyebrows raised and his smirk returned, entertained and waiting to hear more of her approval. Face hot, Hale broke eye contact and held up her bow. “‘Least until you snap my bowstring and nearly break my new bow ‘cause yer boots are so damn heavy.”_

_Lips resuming their frown complimented his creased brow, the criticism irritated Nate. He almost demolished her bow when he packed that morning. Poor placement of her weapon led to the string breaking when the pressure of his foot forced it beyond its threshold. Nathaniel, known for his orderliness, had not expected Hale's things strewn about his floor. He took the weight off his foot before he splintered the entire weapon._

_“If you didn’t leave your things on the floor of my tent when you go off with Damia, I wouldn’t step on them,” he snapped. Implied resentment seeped through his harsh tone. Hale’s jaw dropped as her cheeks remained red, now from anger. Annoyed with his own reaction, Nathaniel avoided her eyes._

Hale had left the tent while he slept, this time to bathe with Damia before the camp broke down. The two women found rinsing off in the icy water far more bearable together. When Nathaniel  stepped on her weapon, it took little effort to deduce Hale’s whereabouts. If not hunting alone or in his company, Hale would only be with her close friend. The women’s friendship, in line with Hale’s brash nature, often became flirtatious and physical.

The quarrel escalated. Hale accused him of jealousy and Nate called out her inconsiderate behavior. A whispered argument transpired as both archers stayed attuned to the environment. Even their row would not warrant losing a kill, and a potential hearty meal that night.

True to their pattern, neither willing to ask when they neared the same underlying question: ‘ _why do you come back_ _to me_ _?’_ This time Hale backed down, agreeing to remove her things when she departed from his tent. Not once did ending the intimate aspects of their relationship arise in conversation.

In one breath, the two stopped in unison. Form shifted, arrows nocked and loosed, and an august ram just within their sight taken down by their shots.

* * *

Days grew to weeks, and the land changed around them. Snow and sleet melted to soft earth, covered in fallen leaves. The Inquisition forces met little resistance as they reached the foothills of the Frostback Mountains. Filing into a narrow line, the trip back up the mountain range was tedious. Through valleys, they climbed to higher elevation until reaching Skyhold.

The colossal fortress, unmistakable amongst the mountains, dominated the landscape. Layers of stone, stacked and sealed with magical energy, Skyhold remained as breathtaking as always. Repairs completed, the stronghold provided security and asylum to refugees, and harbored its allies with care.

The grounds, filled well beyond capacity left Ferelden’s Royal Army, Highever soldiers and the Grey Wardens camped in the valley outside of the haven. Regardless, the soldiers valued a temporary home with a limitless supply of clean water and steady meals before returning to Ferelden. Surreal after so many weeks of travel, the comfort near the fortress welcomed them.

Provided a room within Skyhold’s walls, Alistair and Caoilainn made their way across the bridge and through the gatehouse. The calm welcome to the quiet stronghold did not last long. Hurried steps carried the Inquisitor down the stairs from the main hallway. The sight of a displeased elven woman approaching shocked the royal couple, since she had been in the ruins of the temple as the rest departed the Arbor Wilds.

The Inquisitor addressed Commander Rutherford. “I require a council meeting right away. You can rest later.” Alanna turned to face Alistair and Caoilainn. “Your majesties, if you would be so kind as to join us.” Alistair and Caoilainn shared a glance; Alanna's curt words lingered to carry those gathered up the steps.

The click of the door shutting behind brought the War Room's attention to Alanna. Cullen stood to her left, Morrigan to her right. Equipped with her board of notes, Josephine and Leliana stationed at the side of the table between them. Opposite the Inquisitor, Alistair and Caoilainn stayed side by side passing confused sideways glances to each other.

The Inquisitor addressed her Commander first. “Commander Rutherford, I know our losses were high. Tell me: what’s the damage?”

Cullen shifted on his tired feet and he looked to the War Table. Papers spread across the map, calculations, lists of names and letters littered the surface. Not among them: his notes from the most recent skirmish.

“Ah… yes. I am pleased to report we won the battle, Inquisitor. I have a rough estimate based on the bodies collected at the pyres and counting those on the march. However, I will need time to go over the data compared to the standing armies now.” Cullen held eye contact with Alanna, and tilted his head forward, brows raised. The pair communicated through the gaze.

“Thank you, Commander.” Her shoulders relaxed and her tone eased. “But I would appreciate any information you have now, even if it’s rough estimates.”

“Of course.” Cullen nodded, his lips hinting at a smile. It vanished as he straightened his posture, speaking to all the attendees of the meeting. “We made a significant dent in Corypheus’ forces before they retreated.”

“Then Corypheus is finished?” The scratching from Josephine’s quill halted. She looked to Cullen and the Inquisitor.

Before they could speak, another voice answered. “If Corypheus is wise, he will hide and rebuild before he attacks again.” Leliana, face obscured by her hood, responded to Josephine without making eye contact.

“Regardless, Cullen, how many did we lose?” Alanna redirected the conversation back to her original concern.

Cullen nodded and looked up, counting numbers in his head before giving his estimate. “It looks like we lost close to a quarter, including our allies. Your work with the sentinels kept that from growing larger.”

“Yes. I’m glad we managed.” Alanna stood straighter, regaining professionalism. She looked across the table to Caoilainn. Caoilainn’s eyes widened. “Warden Commander, I’m surprised to see you standing. Please, would you care to explain the mishap that occurred among your Wardens?”

Caoilainn gave a sideways glance to Alistair, seeking his support. Aware of the silence, she lowered her head to think. Hands clasped behind her, the pose provided comfort, a reflection of her leadership. She met Alanna’s stare and cleared her throat. “Yes, Inquisitor. Philippa must not have expected the strength of the enemy mages. We destroyed the demons without difficulty, but our mages didn’t have the magical power to sustain control over the enemy.”

“We realized this was a risk,” Alanna’s eyes squinted, studying the woman across from her. “And we decided if this occurred, the corrupted mages would be eliminated rather than saving them.”

“Correct.” Feet shifted, Caoilainn stood wider, her hands behind her clasped tighter. “We took them down with few casualties among my soldiers.”

“Not including yourself, evidently.” Alanna’s brow rose. The small elven woman seemed to grow taller, more intimidating as her posture straightened. She mirrored Caoilainn’s pose. “For a moment, many of us were under the false impression you died.”

The room remained silent. Brows furrowing, Caoilainn eyes narrowed as she interacted with Alanna. _What is she getting at?_ Distrust encouraged a lifted chin; the Warden Commander gave the Inquisitor a cynical grin. “I’m sorry to disappoint, Inquisitor Lavellan. Is that a problem?” Caoilainn thought she could hear Alistair’s teeth grinding. His hand twitched at her question.

“Oh no,” Alanna’s voice softened, the words sounded sincere, but her stance maintained her stoicism. “But your army and yourself, Commander, could have compromised our mission. Your _incident_ \- fleeing your post from your army, mind you- besides the error of your mages impacted our losses. The Inquisition depends on every last one of our soldiers out there, putting their lives at risk for this battle.” Her hand pointed toward the courtyard where the Inquisition troops recuperated from their expedition.

“As my Wardens and I have done,” Caoilainn’s steeled gaze at Alanna darkened; her frown deepened.

Alistair chimed in. His voice a pleasant break from the tension between these women. He spoke to the room. “And let’s not forget about Ferelden and Highever armies, who, I will add, would not be here if not for my tenacious Queen. Isn’t that right, my dear?” He glanced at Caoilainn.

She read his body language, the use of words and inflection. Alistair was urging her to back down. _Not happening._ “If the Inquisitor does not see my contributions as substantial to her losses, I cannot change that. What are you suggesting as consequence, Inquisitor?” Caoilainn’s brow arched, prepared for Alanna to state her requirements.

“Leave,” Alanna’s arms unclasped and crossed her chest. “You and your Wardens are too unpredictable against Corypheus. We cannot afford the risks accompanied.”

The weight of the Inquisitor's dismissal hung heavy in the room. Baffled stares questioned her words and strong judgment of the Wardens. Wary of the distrust between Alanna and Caoilainn prior to the battle, no one questioned Alanna's decision. Josephine's lips squeezed tight as she took notes on the meeting.

The words hit Caoilainn with force, knocking the wind out of her. With a desperate glance to Morrigan, Caoilainn had a sudden awareness of the pounding of her heart and the clenching of her fist. Her jaw slacked for a split second before she regained her composure. “Inquisitor, we... have you thought this through? We can help in other ways. If Corypheus has some sort of archdemon-”

“‘Tis not an archdemon. Corypheus will not hide.” Morrigan responded to Caoilainn’s concerns, the witch's cool demeanor unaltered by the disagreement. “The Well held many voices and they speak to me now from across the ages. I know how to defeat the dragon. The beast, corrupted by red lyrium and Corypheus' pride, is our key. If we destroy the dragon, you may slay the Elder One.”

 _I thought you would help me._ Gazing at Morrigan, Caoilainn’s hands fell limp at her sides. _I’m not done here._ A search for a cure to the Calling, a personal motivator for her involvement in the Inquisition’s campaign, now seemed a lost cause.

“If she goes, I go.” The King's hand brushed against his Queen’s; their fingers laced in subtle solidarity. With raised posture, a determined stance, Alistair made his announcement. His free hand lifted, rolling with his speech. “Though I would like to continue offering the help of my army, I am not willing to support an operation so unappreciative of those who offer allegiance. Particularly alliances willing to enter an enemy country and fight alongside old foes for your sake.”

“The Highever troops will return with me. It was part of my agreement with my brother.” Caoilainn steeled gaze resumed, despair faded to her authority.

“So be it.” The Inquisitor's hands came to lay flat on the table. She glanced to Morrigan before replying. The two nodded to each other. “Your troops may rest here before you leave. Thank you both for your time and efforts.”

 _You’ve got to be kidding me._ Furrowed brows, mouth gaping, Caoilainn barked her response. “Our effort must not have been-”

Alistair gripped her hand tighter and interrupted. “What I think my Queen is trying to say is: ‘it was our pleasure.’ If the circumstances were different, we could have made a great team.” With a diplomatic bow of his head, he held up their clasped hands. “If our support is no longer required, we will leave you to your meeting.”

Alanna’s eyes wandered to the doorway, and she dipped her head the same direction, giving the couple permission to leave. Wordless, Caoilainn’s eyes wide, dumbfounded by the recent events; she followed Alistair’s guidance from the room.

Creaking, the door swung shut, dotted with a pointed click. Morrigan’s sophisticated lilt followed. Assuring her expertise, she informed Alanna. “Speak to me when you are ready, Inquisitor. In the meantime, I must aid my friend before she departs.”

The Witch of the Wilds took prompt leave, not waiting for permission. Whispers of the Well sensed the taint in Caoilainn and Alistair’s blood and spoke of a way to expel the sickness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to know what you think in the comments. :)


	8. Fathers and Sons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morrigan finds Alistair and Caoilainn to share her discoveries.

“I told you we shouldn’t have trusted her from the beginning. She wasn’t here for the Inquisition; she was here for herself.” Arms in the air, Alanna walked to the other end of the War Table across from Josephine. The Inquisitor kept the ambassador after dismissing the War Council to discuss tying loose ends before their former allies departed.

Josephine’s quill tapped against her chin as she watched the Inquisitor’s rant. Small sounds of agreement and understanding accented Alanna’s upset. Though Josephine had a different opinion, her lips remained sealed.

The Inquisitor stopped, chest heaving, she tucked her blonde hair behind her ears, face red, nostrils flaring. Alanna released a snide huff. “At least her and her husband seem to be better.”

Caoilainn had arrived at Skyhold days before the troops she provided. The Wardens and Highever soldiers arrived together, followed by the Ferelden Army the next day. With the utmost strategic manipulation and sheer tenacity, Caoilainn had orchestrated the Ferelden Army to arrive without its King. When Alistair received word, he changed his plans to follow, unable to communicate with Caoilainn for close to five years. The palpable tension between the couple had been easy to detect upon Alistair’s arrival to the stronghold.

“I’d like to take the opportunity to remind you, Inquisitor.” The low level and gentle cadence of Josephine’s voice contrasted Alanna’s. “You are referring to the King and Queen of Ferelden.”

“And?” Alanna responded without taking a breath. “We are not allied with any country. We owe them nothing.”

“This is true. Yet, if you do not wish to obtain another enemy, it is best to maintain diplomacy. Forgive my forwardness, Inquisitor, but having Ferelden against us may be problematic in the future.”

A sigh of defeat released from Alanna. Acknowledgment of her chief diplomat’s wisdom expressed through the exhale. Alanna’s shoulders slouched. “What do you recommend?”

“Another meeting,” Josephine’s eyes lit up; wheels turning, determining the most effective strategy, she leaned a hip against the table. “You will need to apologize. The Queen of Ferelden is a difficult woman and remedying the situation will be a delicate matter. But her absence from the throne gives her less influence. Your concordance with the King is my concern.”

Arms crossed, the Inquisitor shook her head. “I’m not apologizing. She was using us; I know it.” She looked at the anchor on her hand, relating it to the tasks ahead. “We’ll just have to get this over with before they have a chance to make things difficult. For now, I need to talk to my cousin. Could you make arrangments for tomorrow?”

“As you wish, Inquisitor. I will arrange for a meeting with the young Warden in the morning.” Josephine bowed and departed from the War Room.

* * *

 

“She dismissed us!” Caoilainn turned to face Alistair as they walked into their room near the tavern. Alistair secured the door shut behind him and leaned against it, observing his wife in distress. “Can you believe that? She just,” Caoilainn nodded to the door, mimicking Alanna’s motion for them to leave, “and expected us to leave.”

“I know.” Failed attempts to refrain from grinning displayed in his amusement. His head turned side to side, showing his humored agreement with Caoilainn’s offense. “How dare she.”

The spectacle of Caoilainn’s outrage made for a livened divergence from the last image he had of the room. The bucket and cloth he washed her with sat the center of the room, her robe amidst the sheets on their bed, but this time she was here. Mournful days spent wallowing in grief and self-pity when he thought he lost her now contradicted by her zealous presence. Ablaze with anger, Caoilainn’s bright and fiery temper illuminated the energy in the room. He beheld her with charmed gratitude, tickled by her conviction.

Lost in her rage, Caoilainn overlooked Alistair’s joviality. “Exactly! Doesn’t she know who I am? Doesn’t she know I’m the fucking Queen of Ferelden?” Rushed speech stopped when she took a deep breath. “For the love of Andraste, Alistair what is so funny?”

“Oh, nothing.” Alistair pushed off the door to be near her. Caoilainn’s rumpled brows expressed dislike of his entertainment with her displeasure. “I don’t think the Inquisitor handled her decision in the savviest way possible. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like hearing you claim your place on the throne.”

In the years spent avoiding Alistair, Caoilainn separated herself from her title as Queen. She often reserved her use of the position as a last resort when all other means of influence were unsuccessful.

Alistair reached out. Loving hands found her hips, joining at the small of her back. Caoilainn’s forearms applied passive pressure against his chest. Resistance to his affection indulged her anger. Cheeks flushed, face scrunched, she struggled to endure her foul attitude longer. “She accused me of endangering their mission. I nearly doubled her army! A quarter losses,” Caoilainn rolled her eyes, “that’s good for a battle that size! And who is she to insult my mages? Accusing me of abandoning my post.”

“There, there, my Queen.” The playful rocking of her frame tried to soothe. Caoilainn glared up, her scrunched expression replaced with a dead stare. He smiled down at her. “This might be hard to hear. Brace yourself,” he hugged her tighter. An annoyed huff joined the extension of Caoilainn’s arms around his neck, finally relaxing into his embrace. “The Inquisitor told the truth,” he concluded.

“But-” Caoilainn attempted to defend her dishonesty.

“No,” his tone teased as he shook his head. “No buts. Your mages _failed_ to perform in that battle and you _abandoned_ your post. Remember that part where you scared everyone and almost died?”

A defeated sigh released, and Caoilainn rested her face against his chest. Leather armor and fur brushed her cheek. “My mages did the best they could.” Her voice neared a whine, attempting to prolong her defensive anger. “I went to save you. You're the fucking King.”

He shushed her, calming through his light-hearted condescension. “I am. Try to have patience, my dear. The Inquisition's mission is important- even if they don't want our help. I'm sure we'll find a way to make things inconvenient for them at some point after this Corypheus thing is taken down.”

Caoilainn leaned back, creating some space. Her hands clasped his arms. Lines of heartfelt worry crossed her face. Fair skin, strong and elegant features, decorated by fear. The rush of anger from the meeting with the Inquisitor drifted away. The helpless emotions underneath drained as exhaustion settled in. Weeks of traveling had impact. Caoilainn’s tired body relaxed as she sighed.

“But the cure, Alistair. I'm not ready to leave yet,” she murmured, her eyes glazing as she stared at him. “Morrigan-”

A knock at the door interrupted her statement. The couple’s heads turned to look the direction the knock came. Firm hands steadied her hips as Alistair broke from their hug to open the door. Before he reached it, the visitor knocked again and announced her presence.

“I know you two are in there. I heard your voices just a moment ago. Let me in, I need to speak with you.”

Stopping mid-step, Alistair glanced over his shoulder to his wife. An annoyed grin stretched across his face. He spoke loud enough for their visitor to hear.  “Maker, Caoilainn. You've summoned the witch.”

“I heard that, Alistair!” Morrigan called again from the other side of the door. “Stop making us wait out here in this blasted hall.”

Holding eye contact with Caoilainn, Alistair's brows wrinkled in question. He mouthed ‘us?’ to Caoilainn who shrugged in response. She had a small suspicion who Morrigan may have brought, but couldn't be certain.

Alistair took a breath and opened the door. Morrigan stood, brows raised, annoyed with the delay. Beside her stood a boy. Alistair and Caoilainn’s exhaustion vanished.

“Oh.” The only response Alistair could muster, he stared at the mother and son in the doorway. “Morrigan-”

She interrupted with motion. Bending to meet the boy’s height, Morrigan spoke to him. “All right, little man. Say hello to the King and Queen.”

“Hello,” the boy gave a polite bow. Eyes wide, Caoilainn and Alistair froze as they stared at the young man. “Again,” he murmured to Caoilainn. Their previous meeting when Caoilainn arrived at Skyhold had been brief.

Alistair glanced at Morrigan, stumbling over words. “Now’s not the-”

“It’s polite to introduce yourself to one such as the King,” Morrigan gave the boy another direction before Alistair could finish his sentence. The irony of Morrigan being an enforcer of manners did not have a chance to resonate for Alistair. He remained dumbfounded.

“I'm Kieran,” he followed his mother’s order. His hands touched behind him as he glanced up to Alistair and gave another small bow.

Breath held, Caoilainn witnessed Alistair and his son facing one another on opposite sides of the threshold. Something she could not offer- a child- Morrigan had conceived with one try. Despite certainty of Morrigan’s use of magic, Caoilainn suffered a tinge of jealousy. But the envy did not interrupt their harmony; negative emotions cooled and swathed in the unique love she had for her friend. Deep friendship, formed more from understanding and action than spoken affirmation, found camaraderie in unusual circumstances. Morrigan and Caoilainn exchanged a curious glance, standing on either side of the father and son.

Far different from the prior image he had of this meeting, and equally unprepared, Alistair found gratitude. The mood, brighter, absent of the daunting despair of losing his wife, Alistair noticed details of this interaction. Even with his faculties unhampered by grief, he had difficulty finding adequate words.

Certain of the boy’s identity from the moment Alistair laid eyes on him, the taint in his blood activated. Strange, the sensation felt different from the bond with other Wardens, and not threatening as with darkspawn. Mature for the age of 10, the boy stood well-dressed with the Warden insignia on his chest. Kieran resembled his mother, dark hair and fair skin, but Alistair recognized his eyes staring back; unsettled peering into a hazel gaze so similar to his own. Alistair thought the boy might have inherited his nose. He scanned the little man’s appearance in the few seconds he had before replying.

“I’m Alistair,” the King replied, dipping his head to reciprocate the greeting.

“I know.” Kieran’s brows came to a subtle crease. “Mother told me about you.”

“Oh,” Alistair’s eyes darted to Morrigan. She smirked in reply and tipped her head forward, agreeing with Kieran’s statement without divulging detail. “And what did she tell you, exactly?”

Often one with a list of humorous ways to lighten uncomfortable conversations, Alistair found himself lacking. He bent forward at the waist, hands resting on his knees, better meeting the boy’s eye level.

“Mother said you are a good King and a kind man.” Kieran started, his face calm despite what most boys might find an exciting encounter.

Alistair’s glance wandered to Morrigan, though he stayed at Kieran’s level. A raised brow and a slight grin crept through Alistair’s neutral expression. “Did she now?” The news of Morrigan giving compliments for Alistair required him to double check. His look intended to tease.

Head tilting to the side, Kieran’s curious gaze searched for answers. “Yes, but she didn’t tell me your blood would be so loud. The song it sings is familiar.” His head swayed to the side.

Alistair, unprepared for the unique similarity of this moment to the one from his waking dream, stared at the boy, curious about what connections he might detect. “About that,” Alistair mumbled. 

Before he could answer, Kieran changed the subject, glancing at Caoilainn and back to Alistair. He grinned, rocking on his feet, an arm gesturing toward the Queen. “Your wife is very pretty.”

Unable to withhold a laugh, wrinkles forming at the corners of eyes, Alistair’s smile resumed and widened. “Really?” He shrugged, “I think she looks well enough. I certainly didn't pick her for her looks.” A glance over his shoulder to Caoilainn found her grinning back, brow arched.

“All right, little man. Time to go play. Say goodbye to Alistair and Caoilainn.” Morrigan called to Kieran. He huffed, slumping his shoulders as he glared at his mother. Morrigan’s brows lifted, her head tipping to the side and her eyes traveling out the doorway, ushering him to leave.

Kieran released another begrudging sigh as he turned back to Alistair. Once again, such a familiar pair of eyes stared right back at him. A pit sunk in Alistair’s belly, tugging his attention to this somber emotion hindering what would have otherwise been a pleasant meeting.

Kieran inclined his weight to be closer to Alistair; the boy lowered his voice. “You’re funnier than Mother said you would be. Goodbye, King Alistair.” Speechless, Alistair could only nod. Kieran’s eyes traveled to the floor in front of him, his cheeks flushed. “Goodbye, Queen Caoilainn.”

“Goodbye Kieran,” she answered, giving an unnecessary wave Kieran didn’t see.

“Run along now, Kieran,” Morrigan ordered with a soft tone. Kieran shuffled from the room and down the hallway. 

Dumbstruck, Alistair stared out the way the boy left. The moment flashed by, over before he realized what happened. It made for an odd alliance with his memory of Maric the first time Alistair met Cailan.

 

* * *

  _9:19 Dragon- Denerim Palace_

_Snow piled in the corners of the exterior hallway. The outfit they made him wear itched; clothes much nicer than those he wore at home. Alistair couldn’t feel his gloved fingers from the cold, let alone the hand he was holding. He noticed the splitting wood of the frost covered doors he counted as he walked down the hallway. Denerim Palace, a place he had heard of, seen in passing the few times he visited the city, wasn't as nice as Alistair expected._

_Unsure why Duncan brought him here, he followed the order to hold the man’s hand. Inconsistent but caring, Duncan had visited Alistair at Redcliffe at least once a year Alistair’s entire life. But this was the first time Duncan took Alistair from Redcliffe. Eamon had approved, and Alistair trusted Duncan._

_A boy older than Alistair waited by a bench in the courtyard. The boy’s clothes, pressed and layered with ornate detail, looked even fancier than Alistair's itchy outfit. Uncertain, Alistair’s lingering glance wandered up to Duncan. With a silent nod, Duncan’s eyes urged Alistair to walk to the other boy._

_Taking tentative steps, Alistair released Duncan’s hand and walked to the bench, noticing another man sitting across the courtyard. He was large, donned in royal regalia and spoke with someone Alistair assumed was his assistant. The large man’s eyes flickered to Alistair even while he was talking. Alistair knew who the man must be._ But why is the King looking at me?

 _“I’m Prince Cailan Theirin.” The older boy announced, his right hand extending in a professional manner Alistair had seen grown-ups use to introduce themselves. Alistair’s eyebrows bunched, his gaze following the movement of Cailan’s hand before glancing to Duncan again._ Why is he doing that?

_Cailan glanced at his unreciprocated handshake and brought his hand back to his side. He attempted another greeting. “Your name’s Alistair, right?”_

How does he know my name? _“Yeah,” Alistair answered and met Cailan’s gaze. Blond hair and blue eyes, something about the older boy looked familiar. “Do I know you?”_

_“Nope,” Cailan answered with a weak smile. “But I’ve heard about you. Do you want to play?”_

_Having long since been taught his insignificance, the idea of an older boy, let alone the Prince of Ferelden wanting to play with him seemed laughable. He couldn’t hide his humor. Alistair snorted, not noticing Duncan sitting next to the King. A bashful smirk preceded Alistair’s question for the Prince. “Why would you want to play with me?”_

_Bold and brazen, Cailan grinned before he held up his hand. The motion suggested Alistair allow Cailan to whisper something in his ear; Alistair nodded and leaned in. “Don’t tell anyone. But you and me, we’re brothers. Forever.”_

_While Cailan whispered, Alistair’s eyes landed on King Maric. Undistracted, he appeared interested in the meeting of Alistair and Cailan. Leaning forward, King Maric’s arms rested on his knees as he watched._

Alistair would never forget King Maric’s pensive smile.

* * *

 

The recollection encouraged the differences Alistair made from his father. Something akin to anger spurred within. _Shouldn't we tell him?_ Morrigan wouldn’t allow it. Part of their agreement from the night of the ritual, Kieran wasn’t to know Alistair as his father. It served Alistair too. As King, having a bastard son with the Witch of the Wilds would be frowned upon. The fact he cared sparked more discontent. Even without a mirror, Alistair recognized the heavy-hearted smile he wore from the one he saw on Maric in his memory. 

Acknowledging the similarities between Alistair's childhood and Kieran’s roused regret. Not given a choice, the option of having a father absent, Alistair spent his life pondering what could have been. He didn't wish the same for Kieran. But without a plausible alternative, Alistair evaded emotional discomfort with humor.

“I think he likes you, Caoilainn.” Alistair stepped to her, standing by her side with a hand resting on her hip. He gave a sideways glance. “He was definitely flirting with you. Quite awkwardly, I might add.”

Caoilainn hummed, her head tilted back, eyebrows creased,  mocking surprise and intrigue with Alistair’s assessment. “Ah… so he’s a flirt. Like his father.” She watched his reaction from the corner of her eye.

Alistair squinted, mocking displeasure with the connection she made. His free hand adjusted the position of the cord of his spaulders. He watched his hand with rapt and aimless attention. “Yes, well.... I suppose it runs in the family. I hope he uses that ability with care as he gets older. Right then.”

Morrigan rolled her eyes and sauntered into the room from where she stood in the doorway. Unamused by their banter, her low and impatient voice interrupted.  “If you two are done, I have news.”

Caoilainn's heart jumped. Cautious excitement teased by potential fulfillment of her initial goal. The solution to her strife and what felt a deep-seated inadequacy relied on a cure to the Calling. Caoilainn held her breath, unable to speak.

Aware of his wife’s sudden tension, her body freezing, muscles flexing into rigidity, Alistair spoke for them both. "The good kind, I hope?”

“‘Tis good as it can be,” Morrigan stood across from the couple. The slight angle of her hips, joined with her lifted arm reflected her nonchalant attitude. She explained more detail about the information she learned from her journey into the Temple of Mythal. “I gained knowledge from the elven temple, ages of wisdom whisper a new understanding of the world. I can hear the taint in your blood, and I know why it keeps you barren.”

“Well that’s great,” Alistair broke his gaze to look at Caoilainn. He joked in a loud whisper. “At first I thought she was kidding, but she really is hearing voices."

Morrigan scowled at him, but Caoilainn’s movement interrupted her reply. Eyes wide with intrigue, Caoilainn stepped from Alistair’s side to stand across from Morrigan. “Why? Morrigan, what do we need to know? What do we do?”

“The Old Gods are not concerned with your reproduction. Soldering with your blood, charring your insides, the taint grows and strengthens.” Morrigan’s matter-of-fact explanation provoked blank stares from the couple. “You have borrowed power from the Old Gods and alas, they will call you to the Deep Roads to reclaim it.”

“Well, that sounds hopeful,” Alistair laughed as his hand met his brow. “Don't be too blunt, Morrigan.”

“So what do we do?” Caoilainn's voice eager, eyes sparkling with the excitement she failed to maintain.

Whispers of rituals and blood magic, Morrigan spoke of absolution of the taint for the King and Queen. A cleansing of their bodies, freeing them the disease and its hold. Morrigan provided a hazy description of her plan. The process would require an altar for their purification and a drop of Kieran’s blood. Even with the vague report, Alistair refused. He resisted yet another ceremony to follow what Caoilainn already required to purge the red lyrium. The condition of blood magic set his dissent; his opinion strengthened by the need to use his illegitimate son’s blood.

Concerned brows furrowed, Morrigan asked about the other ceremony and Caoilainn described. Philippa and Aiden’s details, unclear and confusing to Caoilainn and Alistair, incited worry in Morrigan.

“Don't be a fool, Alistair. As I am sure you are both aware, the taint is accelerated for those who complete the Joining during a Blight such as yourselves,” Morrigan reported, her critical stare passing between both Alistair and Caoilainn. A new comprehension of the world and its function included a new understanding of the taint. “The red lyrium will expedite it.”

Caoilainn nodded, her brows creased with intent. A deep breath in and a purposeful sigh, she turned to Alistair. “I want to try the ritual.”

“Caoilainn,” Alistair sighed. His hands lifted, palms up, an indirect plea for her to rethink her decision. "We don't even know all it entails."

“I don’t have time to wait, Alistair.” Her head shaking, she took his hands into hers. “We might have a few years left as it is. If what she says is true, I’ll have even less.” 

“Make this decision with care, Caoilainn.” With her warning, Morrigan’s expression changed. No longer cool and detached, now she showed empathy. Displeased with the news she must deliver, Morrigan frowned, her brows relaxed. “You may not heal enough from the damage the taint has done to have a child. The cure may be for naught.”

Heart sinking into the pit of her stomach, Caoilainn gazed at the floor. The answer seemed simple. An attempt at the cure could save years of her life. But without guarantee for recovery, the latent risks of blood magic may be in vain.

Standing between Alistair and Morrigan, Caoilainn looked at neither. “I’ll do it.” Her gaze traveled up to Alistair, imploring his willingness. “Please, my love. Consider joining me.”

The meeting adjourned after. Morrigan gave a time in two days, justified by a need to collect supplies, secure a location, and speak with the other sorceresses. The explanation made Alistair cringe.

 


	9. Tempest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hale meets with Alanna. Trigger warning: childhood trauma, violence. Death of a parent. Slavery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note: I do not speak elvhen. I did the best I could with the language, but I am not a pro. 
> 
> These songs came to mind: [ Youth by Daughter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VEpMj-tqixs) and [Wild Horses by Bishop Briggs](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6I0hXe0cMUM) and [Like Real People Do by Hozier](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yrleydRwWms)

Grey Warden tents sat snug in tight sections through the valley outside of Skyhold. The vacant Commander’s tent erected in the center marked the start of a makeshift training yard. Sun peaked over the mountain range, dawn welcoming the bustle of the camp’s start to the day. Still recuperating from the march from the Arbor Wilds, most Wardens were slow to start. Enervated soldiers dragged their feet to make breakfast.

“Shite, Val,” Hale grumbled through a yawn. Emerging from her tent, she stretched one arm and scratched her disheveled hair with the other. Tunic loose, breeches tucked into unlaced boots, Hale stumbled to sit around the small campfire for the scouts’ section of the camp. “You think you could snore any fucking louder?”

Valum, a dwarven warrior known for his finesse as a tracker, chuckled to himself. Unconcerned with her grievance, he shrugged. “I could try.”

Hale rolled her eyes to Isenam on the other side of the campfire. Often appointed leader when Nathaniel was unavailable, the tall, elven man watched Hale with expectation for a complaint. He spoke in the native tongue of the Dalish. _“Nuven’in gonun ebalasha_ _era vis esay_ _thanal ma’haman ga’era’vun.” (“If you desire the privilege to complain about the conditions of sleep, try using your bed every night.")_ Hale scowled at him, suspecting his statement hinted knowledge of her whereabouts with Nathaniel. Isenam glared back, but before Hale could reply, Damia emerged from Hale’s tent and ambled the short distance to sit next to her friend.

Isenam shook his head and continued to lecture Hale in elvhen. “ _Mar lanalin elitha del’melin, Hale. As’sulevem del’dirth sal’melin Oin?” (“Your mother chose the wrong given name, Fox. Or did she mispronounce Rabbit?”)_

“Fuck’s sake, bloke,” Hale's cheeks reddened. Annoyance echoed through her guffaw. “Use the bloody common tongue… and don't talk ‘bout my mother.”

A plate of food in hand, Lisbeth grimaced at Damia and Hale. “How the fuck could you hear Val snoring when you're at it all night?”

Surprised faces of the circle of scouts turned to the woman known to be of few words, adding to the case against Hale. It only added to the shared humor found in teasing.

“Yeah! Our whole row could hear you.” Another scout joined in. Sitting next to Lisbeth, Gunnar, a Honnleath born human, imitated Damia. His eyes rolled back, and he faked a moan. “Oh! Hale. Hale! Andraste’s tits! Maker! Yes! Hale!”

Damia turned bright red and groaned, burying her face into Hale's shoulder. Unable to discern if Damia trembled from giggles or because she was crying, Hale yelled at the circle.

“Oi! We got it.” She glowered at each of them, but her sour tone didn’t match the grin she wore. “All you can sod off. Bunch of arseholes.”

A hush fell upon them, not because of Hale’s scolding. Wide awake and fully groomed, Nathaniel entered their small camp. One eyebrow cocked, he scanned the group with curiosity and walked to stand next to Isenam.

The Lieutenants’ tents surrounded the Warden Commander’s. The band of scouts knew Nathaniel had no reason to be in their camp so early unless to mingle. Notorious to most for his poor sense of humor, none wished to discover what the Lieutenant would make of their jabs at their brethren. Hale, proud of her unique understanding of the Lieutenant’s sense of humor, preferred he didn’t overhear the joking for other reasons. Awkward glances passed around the group, waiting for the reason for his presence to be made clear.

Hale's concern he visited to check on her found relief when Nate’s gravelly voice started a low conversation with Isenam. Quiet voices and incomprehensible mumbling suggested Nathaniel did not wish to be overheard.

Gunnar’s sudden unrestrained laughter, amused by their shared discomfort, preceded Lisbeth checking him with her shoulder. A loud, breathless bray escaped him, and the group resumed laughter now at Gunnar’s expense. But the fun did not last. An unfamiliar messenger meandered between tents and the group grew silent again.

The messenger’s quizzical gaze studied each of the faces in the circle, spending more time on the elves in the group. “Is Hale of the Lavellan clan here?”

The gaping mouths of the circle met the question with silence. The team gawked, making the connection between the Inquisitor and the woman who had been the butt of their jokes a few moments ago. Hale, the youngest of the scouting team, had been adopted into their band of Wardens. She acclimated to their teasing and held her own as the newest member.

“Lavellan?” Isenam stopped his conversation with Nathaniel and sent a piercing stare to Hale.

“Shite.” Hale scowled. Ignoring Isenam, she patted Damia’s leg, stood up, then walked to the messenger. “Yeah?”

“The Inquisitor would like to see you.” The messenger wrung her hands and shifted her weight on her feet. Uncomfortable amidst the group of soldiers, she stammered over the last of her message. “N-now, Lady Lavellan.”

Some chuckled at the messenger’s strange delivery. Hale’s frown deepened. “Just Hale. Fine. I’ll be on my way.” The messenger turned a poignant shade of pink and sped back to the stronghold.

“What do you think she wants?” Nathaniel questioned Hale as she walked toward her tent.

The nonchalant shirk of Hale’s shoulders matched the smug frown pulling her lips. “Wants to box my ears for something, I’m sure.” She stepped into her tent and a few minutes later returned wearing her armor; her messy hair was pulled back by a string. Winking at Damia, Hale placed her foot on the seat next to her and tied the laces of her boots. “She’ll try to talk me into going back to the Lavellan clan. Always says ‘ _You’re safer in the Marches.’_ ” Her finger wagged as she imitated her cousin, replacing her city accent with an overdone feminine tone.

 _She’s right._ Stomach twisting, Nathaniel avoided looking at Hale. Though confident she would prefer danger to safety, Hale receiving an offer to go elsewhere troubled him. _If a more advantageous opportunity for her to leave presented itself, would she take it?_ The thought roused an unpleasant emotion.

Gunnar chuckled. “Don’t listen to her, _Lady Lavellan_. We’ll have to go back to teasing Lisbeth if you leave, and she’s not as much fun.” Only a faint twitch of her eyes suggested Lisbeth heard him. Gunnar braced himself for the potential impact of her shoulder again.

“Yeah, yeah. You won’t be having fun if you call me Lady Lavellan again.” Hale chuckled, long strides taking her from the camp. She turned to walk backward. “I ain’t leaving you lot of whoresons.” She pointed at the small group watching her leave. Her eyes skimmed those in the circle, held with Nathaniel longer than the rest. “This is where I belong.” Hale turned on her heels and yelled as she walked away, “And some of you owe me coin!”

_'Being a Grey Warden can change your life if you let it.'_

Nathaniel had been right. Reminiscent thoughts along the way into Skyhold recalled joking and banter with her comrades. Years spent with a sole focus of self-preservation did not allow room for such niceties as ‘family.’ The meaning of the word something she had forgotten since her father died. But needs met by all aspects of this fellowship, she had no reason to pickpocket, scavenge, or starve. The respect she had for her fellow Wardens had grown to outweigh any urge to steal from them.

Hale learned of the Grey Warden sacrifice, the Calling, prior to the battle in the Arbor Wilds. Her gratitude for the order, not dissuaded by an early death, balanced her acceptance of the obligation. Indulgence in an early death did not seem a disadvantage to Hale as it would for most.

The insatiable appetite, on the other hand, created unusual circumstances when it arose in ways other than physical hunger. Heightened libido driven by the Grey Warden bond and complicated by the fondness for her peers wrought confusion. Loyalty, a concept foreign for Hale, found with both Damia and Nathaniel joined with feelings of attachment Hale didn’t understand. Damia, a companion, and partner in crime, gave unconditional friendship and trust. But what drew her to Nathaniel ran even deeper. Compatible personalities didn't explain the connection- the way her bond strengthened when he neared. Arguments fueled chemistry, she desired him more as their fights escalated. And the way she could tell when his eyes were on her, Hale's stomach fluttered as she thought of the sensation. She put it out of her mind as she strolled into the War Room.

 _“Asa'var'lin,”_ Alanna sighed, stepping from her place behind the War Table toward Hale as she shut the door behind her. _“Ma eth itha revas em on'alas telsila.” (“Cousin, your safe return frees me of great worry.”)_

Hale’s scoff responded to the Inquisitor’s kind welcome. She held up her hands to keep Alanna from reaching to hug her. “You know I won’t answer if you speak elvhen.”

“Hale,” Alanna lowered her arms. Pleading eyes asked for her cousin's compliance.“ _Sathan._ Please, just talk to me.”

Heartbeat quickened, a wave of anger made Hale dizzy for a fleeting moment. Face hot, her voice rose with her reply. “What’s there to talk about? You’re gonna tell me to go home and I’m gonna say I'll go back when I'm ready.”

“But you never stay, Hale. Our clan misses you.” Alanna’s palms opened to Hale. Commitment to kin inclined Alanna’s maternal-like worry for her younger, orphaned cousin.

“Like shite they do,” Hale blurted. She turned on her heels to leave and took two large steps. But anger caught up with her, she swung back around.  Arm bent, Hale’s finger pointed between them, making their significant height difference prominent. Hale, tan and tall for an elf towered over her petite, pale cousin. “It’s a lie and you bloody well know it. No one there misses me but you.”

“ _Asa'var'lin,_ they care about you. But when you steal it's hard for them to show it.” Alanna’s reply tried to reason with Hale. Explaining away years of miscommunication between her cousin and the Lavellan clan. “I don’t trust the order you’re involved with.” Her final statement delivered a new concern.

“Don’t fucking start.” Hale groaned, rolling her eyes. Her weight shifted, shoulders slouched; she made a lazy turn to the door.

Hale’s dismissive attitude did not stop Alanna. “They lie and the Warden Commander is false. The Inquisition is ending its alliance with Ferelden and the Wardens. The Grey Wardens are not-”

“I’mma Grey Warden, Alanna!” Hale yelled, her voice echoing through the room. Her finger pointed from Alanna out the window at the field of tents beyond Skyhold’s gates. “That’s my family now! Fuck yer shite alliance.” Her arm dropped. Teeth bared, nostrils flaring, Hale glared at the Inquisitor.

Alanna stared through a pregnant pause. Her sorrowful expression helpless in communication. “Samahl would never-”

“Stop!” An aggressive snarl, Hale’s lip curled. Emotions riled, shiny eyes joined the heaving of Hale’s chest, she barked her reply. “You think ‘cause you’re the sodding Inquisitor, you know what he would’ve wanted? Don’t fucking speak for my father.”

Taking a deep breath Alanna stared at the ground. She backed away from Hale and returned to the War Table, sifting through papers. Hale’s eyes narrowed, suspicious of Alanna’s intention.

“You'll tire of them,” Alanna stated, glancing up to from her stack of papers, her tone serious and professional. “Serving the Wardens won't suit you for long. You know you'll grow restless.” Livid, but without defense to Alanna’s accurate description of her past, Hale’s brow twitched as she stared at her cousin. “Please, Hale. Stay here if you don’t wish to return to the Marches. You can hunt, and drink, and gamble for all I care. If you want a position in the Inquisition, I’ll find one for you. You’ll have more freedom. You know that’s what Sam would’ve wanted.”

Alanna knew what would take precedence for Hale. Her freedom- the thing her father gave his life for when he fought Tevinter slavers in Denerim. Hale stopped and her fury faltered as an image of Alanna's proposition formed in her mind. Statements true of Hale’s history reverberated, habits of tiring of any place she got too comfortable. Any place she felt unwelcome. _Will this Warden shite get old?_ This new alternative sounded appealing: coming and going as she pleased, fun, taking responsibilities as Hale saw fit. Toying with the idea made for fleeting temptation.

But more pleasant thoughts replaced it. Thoughts of those to whom she promised she wouldn’t leave- _Damia and her friends._ Commitment, brethren, fulfillment of needs embodied in the order.

 _Nathaniel._ Pain erupted in her chest picturing him leaving without her. _Pox on me,_ she cursed herself. _He ain't just a good fuck._

She cleared the thoughts from her mind, her vitriol returning. “I fucking told you not to speak for him,” she growled. “You got no right. Plough yourself, Alanna.” Hale turned and neared the door again, it creaked as she pushed it open. But before Hale could step into the hallway, Alanna’s voice rang from behind her.

“Think about it, _Asa'var'lin_.” Insightful to a fault, Alanna detected her cousin’s wavering obstinacy. A seed planted with Alanna’s invitation, and now Hale needed space to determine the path in her best interest.

Stalled in the doorway, Hale didn’t bother turning around with her reply, “Sod off.” The ambivalent mumble resounded indecision.

“ _Sulrahn bre sou_ _vegaral_ _ma esh'ala_ .” (“ _A deeper force pulls you back to them.”)_ Alanna spoke with confidence to Hale's back, perceiving the root of Hale’s hesitation. “ _Ehn emen mar vhenan? Mah alin assan’panelan. Te’din sael’rajelan?_ ” ( " _Who has your heart? It’s that other archer. The first to the commander, isn’t it?”)_ Certain Hale had been enticed by the offer, Alanna’s questions challenged Hale’s pattern. Uncommitted to anyone but herself, a relationship would oppose Hale’s notion of independence.

The Inquisitor had threatened Nathaniel when she met him. A brief meeting informed his small team of scouts their mission into Orlais. It was at this meeting the Inquisitor learned her cousin had been conscripted as a Grey Warden. Without the opportunity for vetting Nathaniel before he took Hale into another country, she trusted her role as the Inquisitor would suffice to intimidate. Alanna witnessed Nathaniel and Hale’s magnetism and predicted it would grow.

Hale spun to face Alanna. Walking backward through the doorway, Hale gave an audacious shrug. “ _Nadas’ea_ ,” ( _“Must be,”_ ) she sneered, then turned and strode away.

 _“Sil’o mar revis, Hale!_ ” (“ _Think about your freedom.”)_ Alanna yelled as the door swung shut, slamming behind Hale’s exit.

* * *

 

_9:31 Dragon_

_She had been here with her father once before. A room within a rickety building composed of crooked hallways and uneven floors. Her father traded goods from the Lavellan clan with a merchant in the Denerim Alienage. But this visit was different. The Blight sparked fear and rumors of a slave trade compounded worry. Familiar merchants along the Waking Sea, usually amicable and welcoming, now delayed orders. Many declined to answer their doors or left their homes vacant. In the Denerim Alienage, streets traditionally occupied by bustling activity were found empty._

_The nervous meeting with the merchant in the worn-down apartment was cut short. Rustling and yells from downstairs suggested intruders. “Vena’_ _elu_ _athe, da’ghi’myelan,” (Hide, little huntress,) her father whispered. Hale did as he ordered, finding a spot in a large trunk occupied only by some loose herbs._

_Hale pushed up the lid of the chest to peek into the room. Humans, warriors equipped with various weapons backed the city elves into a corner, her father and the merchant among them. Frantic, worried faces paired with trembling hands tried to keep the men away. The cornered elves flinched each time the humans barked at them. Apart from Hale’s father, who watched the activity with a critical eye, surveying the situation, searching for an alternative._

_Last to enter the room, an armored elven woman spoke to the quivering group. “You have no reason to fear. Keep your voices down.” The authority in her tone echoed through the elves’ fearful whimpers. Despite her professionalism, Hale did not believe the woman’s suggestion. And judging by the scared faces staring back, neither did the cowering elves._

_“Devera, we need to hurry. Caladrius didn’t expect us to take this long.” One slaver near the doorway addressed the armored elf._

_Devera rolled her eyes to the source of the voice before returning to the group of elves. The warrior's eyes widened, his posture straightened. “You are all needed in the Tevinter Imperium. Please, trust me. We are here to protect you,” Devera’s empty words did little to soothe._

_The shrill cry of one of the trapped elves responded, followed by her quaking incoherent pleas. “Children… Husband… Family… My home.” Hale made out a few of the words through the woman’s wailing. Panic showed. The frightened woman’s eyes darted to the doorway and back to Devera. Hale felt her heart beating in her ears as she watched the woman calculate her escape. Then the nameless woman bolted; her attempt to flee ended abruptly. The thunk of a crossbow reverberated, shooting a bolt through her chest before she could take two steps._

_Hale squeezed her lips together to keep from yelling. The woman’s blood pooled under her body. Hale’s eyes grew larger, tears burned making her vision foggy. Blinking, alarmed, she studied her father, his fortitude, and resolve. His face stern, unmoved by the slavers’ violence._

_“How can you do this to your own people?”_

_Hale blinked, stomach turning, knuckles white, she clenched her fists against the lid. Her lips formed ‘no’ in repetition as her head shook in disbelief of what she saw._

_“They aren’t property,” Samahl stepped forward from the group of elves. Hot tears streamed down Hale’s cheeks as she witnessed her father’s bravery._

_Devera shrugged, her lips peeled back to a sneer. “Really, it’s nothing personal. I’ve simply come to discover it’s more profitable for me to cooperate than oppose. I’d recommend you do the same, lest you find a similar fate as this woman.” A hand gestured to the dead woman on the floor._

_Samahl’s eyes narrowed, but he smirked. Hale recognized his expression when he thought. The man she adored, who taught her how to drum, to shoot a bow, to hunt. He took this moment to devise a plan._

_Samahl muttered words in elvhen without breaking eye contact with Devera. “Melena sul eth i josa. Ga’sahl vena revis, ara da’ghi’myelan. Ar lath ma.” (“Wait for safety then run. Always find freedom, my little huntress. I love you.”) Devera’s face contorted in confusion as he spoke, along with the rest of the room. Only Hale understood. Samahl took advantage of their befuddled stares. Drawing an arrow and loosing it, he shot the slaver carrying the crossbow before the others realized what happened. “Never,” Hale’s father declared, responding to Devera’s threat before the other armed men surrounded him._

_During the commotion, Hale dropped the lid of the trunk, unable to watch as her father fought the five men that encircled him. It took them all to bring Sam down. The sounds of the struggle, grunts and groans, pained noises and thumps of bodies reverberated. Hale put her hands over her ears, trying to block out the clamor until there was none._

* * *

 

Steaming, Hale stormed back into the Grey Warden camp. Still morning, more of the soldiers had bathed and dressed, dividing chores through the camp. By the time Hale reached her band of scouts, the camp had already been cleaned from breakfast.

Encouraging recuperation from the journey, the Warden Commander had yet to give training orders. Hale now understood the Commander intended for them to rest before they resumed marching, this time back to Ferelden.

Lisbeth and Gunnar teamed with the Dalish twins, Ashiwyn and Saeris, practicing light combat with their downtime. Hale charged by them emitting fiery energy unwelcome to questions. Averting the eyes of Nathaniel, still engaged in a quiet discussion with Isenam, Hale made her way to her tent. She emerged a moment later with her bow and quiver strapped to her back, then proceeded from the camp.

Ruminating Alanna's questions blurred with memories of her father, a determined march took the young Warden away from Skyhold and the camps outside it. Quiet valleys stretched in all directions, green grasses pale from sunlight spread over the mountainous curves. Rocks emerged from the earth, hinting at the craggy bases on which she stood. Ages of history, nature nearly untouched by time expanding as far as she could see.

The inactivity of animals made for feeble hunting. Perked senses sought tracks, droppings, or sounds of creatures scurrying to no avail. On any other day, Hale would find a spot to settle in and wait, regardless. But now, hunting didn’t satisfy to reprieve swelling emotions. Suspended in the hushed expanse, lifeless aside from the animated wind beating against her ears. Arm slack, bow in hand, the weapon rest against her legs. A habit that often brought patience now brought awareness of her anger. Frustration formed over sadness weaved with turbulent confusion. Hale stood staring into nothing.

A deep ache, long-standing sorrow rushed to the surface. Abiding grief most often denied by bullheaded obstinacy manifested as a dull twinge boring through her chest. Wonted longing, the hole created by the absence of her father intensified from Alanna’s attention. The elvhen language triggered memories of his last words. Reminded of all her father embodied- laughter, safety, and adventure- and found wanting, the sound of his name nulled the capacity to overlook the emptiness to which she had grown accustomed. Neglected feelings, the need to mourn the deepest loss she could fathom couldn’t be ignored. And above it, wrath. Rage at the world for allowing it to happen. _He was a good man._

The tie in Hale’s hair came loose in the wind. Unmoved, she watched it float away, carried by gusts so strong preventing it from landing. Tendrils of hair whipped around her face, matted by the windy tempest; Hale took a deep inhale, dropped her bow to the ground, and bared her teeth. Erupting from deep within her belly, energy building, boiling, traveling up and out, she screamed. The wordless roar rattled her lungs expelling every last bit of air. Drowned out by the wind, certain no one could hear her, she heaved and yelled again, doubling over. Tumult built within freed as the storming emotions spewed from her vocalization. She continued to yell until there was nothing left. Until screaming turned to a furious howl, her body quaked from profound sadness beneath her ferocity.

Her arm wrapped around her stomach. Grief-stricken cries ebbed to whimpers. Still standing, she wiped her tears from her face with her free hand.

“Huntress?” A familiar, gruff voice called from behind her. Forced to raise his volume due to the wind, Nate's concern for Hale fueled initiative.

 _I shouldn't care,_ he reminded with each step he took in pursuit of the huntress. Assumptions of the worst forced him to follow. _She's going back to the Free Marches,_ his worry concluded from her sadness. He had kept distance, leaving space as he watched her scream and cry. Observing the lovely creature’s rabid rage roaring into the mountains and melting to tears moved him. _Something outside of her control prompted this._

He called again, “Hale?”

A voice louder than she thought possible for the Lieutenant brought another onslaught against her spirit. Questions about her commitment to the Grey Wardens and the depth of her attraction to Nathaniel provoked another wave of tears. Her shoulders slouched, her head fell forward, and she groaned.

Nathaniel stepped closer. Standing behind her, their bodies almost touched. It would be easy to wrap his arms around her and provide comfort, Nathaniel stayed the urge out of respect for her anger. He recognized her fire only because a similar flame burned within himself. And it often demanded room to swell and wane without the coercion of bodily contact. But he cared for her and offered the support he could.

“Huntress,” he stated, close enough he no longer had to yell. Wind blew around Nathaniel and Hale; the space between them so insignificant the gusts couldn’t part them. Neutral curiosity did not pass judgment, his tone remained even. “I’m here. You don’t have to say anything.”

Her guard racked by complex emotions, unsure how much Nathaniel saw of her tantrum Hale let out a defeated sigh. Her body wilted, embarrassed, avoiding his attention. “I’m fine,” she replied, dismissing him.

“You don’t have to lie either,” he grumbled, glad she couldn’t see his smirk. Hale’s pitiful posture rejected her claim. “What do you need?”

Without a word, Hale turned. A brief tremble and she gathered herself and glared up at him. Auburn tresses knotted, disheveled by billowing air obscuring her face in the random intervals of windy blasts. Land stretched around the pair, facing each other on the empty mountainside. The ends of Nate’s hair, tied back by braids, danced on his shoulders. He waited.

Rebounded ire now directed at Nathaniel’s amity made her forehead crease. With her palms clenched, Hale lifted an arm and beat her fist on Nathaniel’s chest. He took the brunt of her impact, a minor sway from her force. Stern, composed, he didn’t respond. She did it again. And again, in repetition, the back of her balled hands landing on his chest. Pent frustration, fury found release on his body. Certain Hale didn’t use her full strength, he permitted the expression of her discontent.

Her cry joined the pounding motion. “Fuck you! Fuck this. Fuck the Inquisition. Fuck everything!”

Nathaniel’s nearly successful efforts to keep from laughing resulted in a small smirk. Eventually, his hands found her shoulders. Beating fists slowed to a stop, Hale gasped to catch air.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” His disinterested question asked with tamed concern.

“No! I don’t want to tell you nothing,” she yelled through her panting. Her hostile response met the wall of his unyielding consistency.   

“Fine.” Nathaniel’s answer paired with his release of her shoulders.

Unreciprocated vitriol forced her to examine her reaction, aware of the soothing effect of Nathaniel’s touch only after it was removed. Her gaze traveled to her shoulder where the warming sensation of his hand lingered. Resentful of his impact, she interrogated, “Why’d you follow me?” She looked around their setting, valleys spreading out from all sides. The Inquisition’s stronghold a blurred building in the distance.

Nathaniel frowned, glancing around the expanse. The complicated answer to her irritated question required him to confess the unknown. Instead, he replied with a fact, “I care about you, Hale.”

Her lips parted, gaping for a moment before she pursed; her brow furrowed. “But why, Nate? Why do you care?” Her inquiries addressed the unusual circumstances of their friendship, demanding an explanation for the dynamic growing between them.

Facing her misplaced contempt with an intense stare, Nathaniel didn’t respond; he didn’t have answers to the questions she asked.

“I’m fucking broken,” she added. “A broken piece of shite with no,” she gasped, voice tremored, tears pooled, “no fucking parents. I’m no good. You got no reason to care ‘bout me.” The familiar sting of emptiness sparked in her chest.

“I could say the same about myself.” Nathaniel’s own feelings of inadequacy arose, relating to her assertion. Brokenness, a defect of self far beyond remedy. His hands found her hips this time. Hale’s eyes closed, appreciating the warmth, the bonded connection surging through her; she gave a thwarted sigh and Nate mumbled, “Is that enough of a reason?”

Her eyes opened to glower at him. Teary green eyes framed by a messy mane of red hair, her head turned. A question answered with another. “What the fuck are you doing to me?” She needed to understand the blustering feelings he elicited and the hold they had over her.

“I should ask you the same.” He quipped, forehead wrinkling with exasperation. Nathaniel and Hale stared at one another; their conversation maintained what little semblance of stealth to avoid the subject they now bordered. The violent gale whipped around the pair, whispering threats of its strength. It caused them to stumble.

Regaining her stance, Hale’s chin lifted in defense to Nathaniel; her lip curled as she gave her reply. “Well don’t worry, mate. I always leave. Ain’t good at commitments, remember? Shite will get old and I’ll run.” He let her ramble, her exhaustion gave momentum to her embittered response. “I’ll sod off somewhere else, stay ‘til I ain’t...” Her voice shook as sorrow reemerged from anger. The light shining off her pool of tears twinkled. “Ain’t bloody wanted then I leave.”

“I want you to stay,” Nathaniel’s gruff and even tone resounded with an airy billow.

Bottom lip protruded, Hale made a vexed pout. Hot tears lent to shallow streams and tracked down her cheeks, cooled by the howling wind. An awkward moment passed. Out of character for the unlikely duo, meeting in a private location without a mundane guise and with no intent to relieve tension by way of sexual endeavors. Nathaniel’s hand traveled to her chin, the affectionate placement unfamiliar to either person.

“I’ve no room to judge your past.” Nate extended his explanation, studying the fiery young elf’s wordless shifts from comfort to subtle hostility. “And you don’t owe details to me or anyone else. You can tell me what you need. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Animus provoked by his tempered invitation, Hale growled and pushed away from Nathaniel. Her arms waved with agitation as she took a few steps from him; she pointed toward Skyhold. “Alanna’s fucking ending it with Ferelden and the Grey Wardens!” She stopped and swiveled to scowl at Nate, indignant tears welled. Another breath and she resumed her impassioned pacing. The distance between them required her to elevate her voice into the beating wind. “She wants me to stay here... Said it’s what my dad would’ve wanted… But fuck her! I’m a Warden now. A load of shite, guilting me into staying.” A few teardrops fell and Hale looked up. Scattered clouds drifted through the sky, azure reaching the earthy horizon. She groaned, the sound morphing to another roar. Nathaniel tried to keep from smirking at the young woman’s shameless display of her age through free-flowing defiance. “I miss him a lot, Nate, and she’s probly right. But I ain’t some sodding child! l fucking love-” she sucked in air, open palms circled in front of her as she struggled to find words. Nathaniel held his breath waiting for Hale to continue. Her final proclamation fumed with ardent will. “... Love being a Grey Warden!”

Her paces ceased, and she stood breathless watching Nathaniel with a teary glare from a few steps away.

Nathaniel’s balance, composed in the face of turbulence offered resolve. Vulnerability consented a new dynamic with no motive apart from solidarity. His voice raised in the space separating them. Their eyes locked. “It’s your decision, Hale.” He looked toward Skyhold and back to her. “Not Alanna’s or your father’s... or even the Commander's. This decision is yours and yours alone.”

The tempest eased to a quiet zephyr.

Hale let out a wry laugh. “Fuck’s sake, Nate. I wanna be near you.”

 


	10. Absolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sorceresses meet to discuss the ceremony. Nathaniel confronts Caoilainn.

An odd trio of magical power, Morrigan convened with Philippa- a Senior Warden and experienced mage, and Fiona, the former Grand Enchanter. Morrigan did not try to hide her aversion to Circle mages, applying assumed authority as the leader of their crusade to heal Alistair and Caoilainn of the taint.

“Blightcap,” Morrigan ordered, her impatient gaze traveling toward Philippa. Dusty bottles littered the surface of the table where Morrigan stood; each time she moved a bottle, an imprint of the round glass remained in the thick coating of dust. An underground sanctuary found beneath the Skyhold gardens allowed the sorceresses to prepare the ritual for Caoilainn and Alistair.

“You can’t add deep mushrooms to a corrupter agent! You’ll kill them.” Philippa guffawed, looking up from her chest of supplies with an offended frown.

“Are you going to tell us your plan, Morrigan?” Fiona stood across from Philippa, aiding the Warden mage with the herbs she separated. The former Grand Enchanter’s uneasiness showed through passing glances from the other two sorceresses.

“And please, witch of the wilds, do tell us how one such as yourself came across this elaborate ritual despite your… rural upbringing.” Philippa held the deep mushroom she located, eyes narrowing in a critical stare at Morrigan.

Morrigan’s brow twitched; her subtle glare pierced the mage with hostility. “‘Tis inconsequential, my plan.” She informed, shaking her arm to rush the delivery of the ingredient she demanded. “What matters is it will work. I doubt the Circle has loosened your leashes enough to comprehend the magic’s nature, anyway.”

A light shift on her feet preceded Fiona’s interruption to their derision. Though she was the only active participant in the Circle of Magi, she proved to be the mediator between the cantankerous women.

“The ingredients of this ritual seem quite caustic.” Learning of the red lyrium trapped within the Warden Commander disturbed Fiona. Though the effects of the blunder accelerated the Calling for Caoilainn, Alistair was Fiona’s concern. If harm met Caoilainn, he would suffer. In the hopes to help him, she attempted to set aside her fears surrounding the risks of mage corruption in the use of powerful magic. "Are you certain of your power to withstand the lure of demons, Morrigan? You can guarantee all of our safety?"

“This ritual is not self-serving and I have resisted much stronger forces than demons in the Fade," Morrigan said, brushing aside Fiona's worry.

“Yes, Morrigan. Lest we not forget, my ceremony must weave with your arcane, backwoods ritual. _I_ cannot abide by danger presented to Caoilainn or the King,” Philippa declared before Morrigan could answer, romanticizing the royal couple’s relationship. Her tone suggested she cared more for the well-being of Caoilainn and Alistair than the Witch of the Wilds.

“And I do not abide fools. If you are afraid of my magic, go play healer to the sick and wounded elsewhere. Leave me to my work.” The level of her voice rose with her brusque answer.  

Contempt grew from mercurial dispositions catalyzed by care for Caoilainn. Philippa and Morrigan’s worry resounded in their bitter griping.

Fiona became the mediator to propel the preparation, communicating between the other two women as the voice of reason. “Please, Morrigan. We cannot be kept in the dark and confidently channel magic.”

The annoyed clink of glass against the wood table reverberated as Morrigan walked to the other two mages. A hand extended, reaching to pluck the deep mushroom from Philippa’s fingers. Resistant, Philippa’s arm moved from Morrigan, keeping the fungus out of her grasp. "Just as this Blightcap has tainted elements so do our Wardens. And just as dwarves clean the tainted elements from their food, so too must the taint in the King and Queen be cleansed. It will require far greater measures, however. Please tell me if this is beyond what your little Circle trained minds can follow.”

“You must explain more.” The Warden mage’s eyes narrowed. Her guarded posture patronized the Witch of the Wild’s vague reply. “My education on corrupter agents and deep mushrooms did not include taint expulsion. There were no courses on wildling magic. I did, however, learn enough from my text to purge the red lyrium from Caoilainn’s body.”

“The honesty of your inferior education is at least refreshing.” An arch of her brow, Morrigan’s smirk condescended. Philippa’s scowl did not prevent her from listening to Morrigan’s explanation. “‘Tis a poison for a poison, essentially. The potion I am making will overwhelm the taint. The taint’s leeching elements, a facet of the symbiotic function of the disease, will feed off the potion. The disease will be unaware of ingredients that will neutralize it. For reasons I do not wish to disclose, my son’s blood is unique. When added to the potion, it will lure the taint from their blood, nullifying the sickness as the taint absorbs the potion. The red lyrium will be loosened, its power minimized, but the potion will not remove it.”

Whispers from the Well of Sorrows spoke of the taming power of Kieran’s blood. The essence of the Old Gods entwined with another ordained bloodline. Alistair's heredity of House Theirin contained powerful elements. Dragon blood, a vigorous counterbalance to the parasitic aspects of the taint, binding the two through Kieran and creating the final ingredient to the complicated potion.

The subtle nod of Philippa’s head suggested she understood the logic of Morrigan's ritual. But squinting eyes hinted at wariness of the origin of the qualities of Kieran’s blood. She handed over the Blightcap. “Somehow I am not surprised an apostate would have exceeding knowledge of a covert blood magic potion that manipulates its target.” She did not wait for Morrigan’s retort before asking another question. “When will the ceremony for Caoilainn take place?”

“Before I give the recovery antidote,” Morrigan answered as she took the mushroom back to the table, severed it with a sharp knife, and placed the pieces in a concoction of other liquids. The low screech of a toxic reaction sizzled as the liquids devoured the artifacts of the mushroom. “This process will deplete Alistair and Caoilainn. Their bodies have incorporated the taint; ‘tis how they lived through the Joining. You'll have a brief opportunity to perform your ceremony before they must be healed. You’ll know when it’s time.”

Glancing around the room, Philippa’s eyes measured the space, determining the steps needed for her ceremony. “My plan is much simpler. With far less room for error, mind you.” She turned to Fiona. The two women had met and discussed the steps to the ceremony prior to meeting with Morrigan. A few final aspects remained to be resolved. “As you were the one to heal Caoilainn, you will need to speak the incantation, dear and I will strengthen your spell.”

In their previous discussion, Philippa explained the incantation that would summon the red lyrium from Caoilainn’s body. Upon learning of the Warden Commander's status and the need for the ceremony, the former Grand Enchanter agreed for the sake of Alistair. When Caoilainn’s death seemed imminent, the heartbreak Fiona saw in her vision of Alistair rattled her conscience. Though she abandoned any opportunity to make amends with the King, setting aside her mistakes with the Tevinter Magister and the damage it caused to Redcliffe, Fiona’s participation in healing Caoilainn assured his happiness. It was the only reasonable aspiration she could have for her son.

Fiona gave silent agreement, nodding to Philippa in response.

The Witch of the Wilds waved her hand over the small pot that contained her ingredients. Low screeching ceased, and the steaming potion simmered, wisps of smoke wandered up, entwining in unique forms. Morrigan’s satisfied smirk suggested she was pleased with the results. She returned to cutting up herbs while speaking over her shoulder to Fiona and Philippa.

“Her holiness, Grand Enchanter,” Morrigan started, addressing Fiona with a wave of her hand.

“Former,” Fiona corrected, her finger lifting to interrupt. The small elven woman stood strong, contradicting her previous timidity. “Former Grand Enchanter, thank you.” Absent of a comeback or gibe at Morrigan, the firmness in Fiona’s statement could not be denied.

Morrigan’s lips pulled down, impressed by the small woman’s attitude. Her knife divided remnants of the plants she dissected. “ _Former_ Grand Enchanter Fiona,” Morrigan edited her previous statement. “I will need you to cleanse the shallow bath before I diffuse the potion.”

Within the cavernous sanctuary, beyond where the women stood concocting potions and completing their tasks, a pool of water lay. Engraved stones adorned with elven runes, relics to the history of the stronghold above, contained the shallow altar. Veilfire burned at torches resting in stone columns, pillars reaching up from the watery shrine to the rocky ceiling overhead. Moving shadows murmured secrets of the magic illuminating the reliquary.

Fiona nodded again, this time to Morrigan. An impatient woman, Morrigan’s use of time a high priority, she continued leading the meeting. Listing the next item on her list of things to complete prior to the ritual. Her hands still active at the table with the contents to her recipes.

“Warden, for the antidote I will need embrium.” Without facing her, the Witch of the Wilds addressed the mage whose bountiful collection of ingredients seemed to have no end.

Philippa grinned and reached into the chest in front of her to locate the herb Morrigan demanded. She pulled it from the depths of the wooden container and held it out, forcing Morrigan to turn around to face Philippa. “Ah, embrium. A wonderful healing herb, particularly for regenerative purposes. I’ve heard it’s great for getting out stains. Tell me, Morrigan, is that true?”

Knife in hand, Morrigan made a poignant turn. Glaring, she took the few steps between them and snatched the plant from Philippa’s clutches. Both women’s eyes glanced at the knife. “I’d be more than obliged to find out.”

Fearful, breath held, Philippa froze as Morrigan's blade descended toward Philippa's palm, causing the Warden to retract. Philippa stepped away, pulling her hand in close to her body; she sneered at Morrigan. The subtle curve of the Witch of the Wild's lips showed amusement with the mage's fleeting dread.   

Fiona cleared her throat and spoke up. “When will this ritual take place?” The question to Morrigan interrupted her taunting. Morrigan glanced back to Philippa once more before shrugging and returning to the table.

“The potions will be done by the evening, but the hour before daylight is most auspicious,” Morrigan replied, slicing the embrium and placing it in a separate pot with another combination of items. The liquid swirled, calmed by the addition rather than agitated. “One of you will fetch the couple at the appropriate time.”

* * *

_"Fuck’s sake, Nate. I wanna be near you.”_

The confession punctuated Hale’s tangent of her dilemma. To stay with the Wardens or leave.

 _Shit._ Emotions conflicted, the tugging feeling in Nate’s chest opposed the buzz of warnings running through his mind. _Duty over… whatever this is._ But her words resonated; he felt the same. Raw and unrefined, the desire to be near Hale put simple words to a complex reaction. Despite all the time he spent pondering his attraction to the young woman, and the reverse, he found no answer. Yet the pull was consistent.

And in spite of the internal warnings, he neared her. Closing the space between them to Nathaniel’s surprise, his movement came naturally. Without words, his arms encased the young huntress. Nothing but sheer trust and vulnerability allowed her to find comfort. Her shoulders relaxed; her body eased in his arms and she rested her cheek against him.

The hostile young woman who had thus far shielded herself with a crass tongue and more blatant forms of rebellion now showed him fragility. Empathy and concern brought his head to rest on top of hers. Standing together as the mountain air breezed around them in their embrace.

The morning with Hale mellowed. She gathered herself, anger calmed to gaiety as they walked back to camp. Joking conversation made light of the interaction on the mountainside. She teased Nate for following her and he reminded Hale of her _'fuck everything’_ tantrum. Shared laughter made light of the intensity from which they walked. The change of energy between them apparent though unspoken undertones dominated. They avoided discussing the questions at hand. _What does this mean?_

 _Would Hale stay at Skyhold?_ The question lingered for Nathaniel despite Hale's affirmed love of the Wardens and her admitted desire to be near him.

Shrouded within the jovial moment with Hale, Nathaniel’s thoughts darkened. Severance of the Grey Warden’s alliance with the Inquisition posed repercussions. The potential for Hale staying at Skyhold affirmed a variation of his prior fears, but the news sparked other worries. Caoilainn stepping down as Warden Commander was imminent. Returning to Ferelden would add pressure to Caoilainn and relayed immediate consequences to Nathaniel’s responsibilities in her stead. He tried to ignore the unsettled pit in his stomach, dreading the obligation of choosing the Wardens over Hale. _What are you doing to me, Huntress?_

Arriving at the Grey Warden camp, Hale left Nathaniel’s side to find her fellow scouts. Nate returned to the training yard where some Wardens voluntarily took up combat practice to occupy time. Tent flaps waved in the mid-day breeze, revealing Caoilainn inside her tent as Nate passed by.

Diverting from his path to his own quarters, Nathaniel entered Caoilainn’s tent. Determined steps prepared to demand answers to the news Hale had delivered. The Warden Commander stood at her table, preoccupied with a quill to parchment scratching a lengthy note.

“Fancy seeing you here, your Majesty.” His snarky greeting commented on her recent absence from the Warden camp and her steady position at Alistair’s side.

“I could say the same for you.” Caoilainn’s annoyed glance moved from her parchment to Nathaniel and back again. Her comment pointed out his absence from the camp that morning. “Not now, Nate.”

His eyes narrowed at her remark, taking it as an insinuation of irresponsibility equivalent with her own. “Were you planning to tell us about the end of our aid to the Inquisition?” Nathaniel took another step closer toward the table. Regardless of his recent distractions with Hale and the end of the less professional aspects of his friendship with Caoilainn, she still held the rank of Warden Commander. _Her duty to the Wardens cannot be circumvented with a tender reunion with her husband._

“How do you-” Caoilainn’s eyes darted to Nate, shocked by his question. Her thoughts preoccupied with Morrigan’s news, Caoilainn’s anger with the Inquisitor lost precedence to the Cure. “You know. It doesn’t matter. Yes, Nate. We’re returning to Ferelden.” She gave an irritated glance to him before returning to drafting her letter. After dabbing the quill in the bottle of ink, the nib pressed against the parchment. A single word flowed before her attention returned to Nathaniel. “Have you thought more about what I asked?”

She referred to her proposition Nate assume the role of Warden Commander. Nathaniel had demanded time to think. To construct a plan. The decision came with deliberation. Nathaniel met with Isenam to discuss the scout’s willingness to receive a promotion to Lieutenant. A Dalish elf native to Orlais, Isenam was a most experienced and disciplined Warden. The trust Nathaniel had in Isenam assured a qualified replacement.

But Nathaniel’s agreement to become Warden Commander had to occur on his terms, requiring clarity his elevation wasn’t to support Caoilainn’s negligence.

“I have,” Nathaniel’s posture straightened as his emotions drew inward. Shutting down to Caoilainn’s urgency to receive an answer to her selfish request, he withheld his acquiescence.

“And?” Her head made a quick shake, pressing him for an answer. “Will you succeed me?”

Her insistence agitated him. The massive responsibility she haphazardly discarded suggested ten years as Warden Commander could be easily forgotten; her life as a Grey Warden abandoned for a fairytale ending of a family with the King. _And she knows I have no disillusions for another life before the Calling._ Caoilainn understood Nathaniel’s commitment to the Wardens better than anyone.

Nate’s heart pounded and his face grew hot. “How can you leave?” His voice rose and his hands planted on the table across from her. “Most of ten years spent commanding and you’re just going to throw it away because your _King_ commands it?”

Caoilainn’s fist slammed on the table. “This is my choice, Nathaniel!” The bottle of ink rattled with the impact, reverberations echoing after her display. She collected herself, standing up and flattening the wrinkles in the fabric of her gambeson. “I’d like this transition to be civil. You’re still my close friend.”

“Then don’t leave this to me.” He grumbled in exasperation, words coated with disappointment. “At least teach me, Caoilainn. What if I need your insight?”

Looking toward the ground, Caoilainn paused. Visibly uneager to share this caveat of his promotion, she mumbled. “You’ll communicate with Alistair. I can’t help you once I go back to Denerim.”

“What?” Nathaniel’s voice resounded utter disbelief. Nate’s mouth gaped, skeptical of this powerful woman’s preference of these circumstances by her own volition. His assumption the stipulation resulted from Alistair’s demands made Nathaniel even more livid. “You’re kidding me. He's not qualified. And you’re submitting to this?”

“Nate.” Caoilainn sighed. Her shoulders slouching, hands raised to her chest expressing heartfelt sincerity. Her eyes shined. “I hope in time it will be different, but for now it must happen this way. I need to rebuild trust with Alistair.”

Disgust churned within Nathaniel. Caoilainn’s out-of-character compliance with Alistair’s rules based on nothing more than the King's insecurity nauseated Nate. Memories of his last conflict with the King arose. Alistair spouted derision to Nathaniel's name, relating him to the crimes of his father. Contempt boiled, but not without his pledge to the Wardens weighing on his shoulders. _You're making an enemy, Alistair._

“Fine.” He growled. The curt reply resonated his dislike of the agreement, but he took the responsibilities. _She knew I would._

He didn’t wait for Caoilainn’s response and made an abrupt leave of the Warden Commander’s tent. The afternoon sun dragged across the sky. Disappointment in himself for folding compelled Nathaniel to find work. Irate with Caoilainn’s indulgence in Alistair’s insecurities, and keen to distract himself, Nathaniel went into the yard to direct the training of the Wardens already practicing. Stubborn pride urged proof of commitment to the order.

* * *

 

Watching Nate leave, Caoilainn didn’t call after him. _He needs to come to terms._ The nib of her quill resumed its mission against the parchment.

_With my resignation, Nathaniel Howe will be my successor as Warden Commander._

_Caoilainn Theirin_

_Warden Commander- Ferelden_


	11. The Ritual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ritual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pardon me for taking so long! I wanted to make sure this chapter really captured what I envisioned. Then I had a family emergency. :( If you would like music, here is what I have in mind... [The Ritual](https://open.spotify.com/user/etaeternum/playlist/0ONJnCW2VhlLRuVho5j4PQ) AND! I have a lot of new art on [Tumblr! ](etaeternum.tumblr.com/motherofgriffons)

Long before dawn, they woke to banging on their door. Philippa called from the other side of the entry, rushing them to follow her. Silent, the royal couple rose and dressed in darkness.  His grogginess aside, Alistair noticed Caoilainn's furrowed brow in dim lighting, stern concentration laced with worry.  Filled with genuine concern, but unable to think clearly enough to find a witty way to ask, his question sang through a loud yawn, “What’s wrong?”

Silence followed. She pondered his question with delayed reaction. “Can I be honest with you?”

“I should hope so," Alistair chuckled. Knowing eyes studied what few of her anxious features he could discern in the darkness. His sleepy humor faded to trepidation. The question stirred suspicion, discomfort with what he presumed to be her lack of honesty so far. “That is one of our rules, Caoilainn. What’s going on?”

She took a deep inhale and waited, navigating the room with tempered steps as she sat on their bed to put on her boots. “I sent my letter to Weisshaupt yesterday, Alistair. I resigned."

"Wow." His surprised response came as he stood near the door, waiting for her to finish. "That was fast." Alistair withheld further reaction, troubled by his suspicion her confession meant she had a change of heart.

"Even if the cure doesn't work, I promised." She assured him, rising from the bed and taking steps toward him. Her hands pressed to his chest as her body came closer. An earnest gaze met his apprehensive stare. "The Inquisition doesn't need the Wardens anymore. I said I would come home."

"Caoilainn," he sighed. Hands placed on her hips, he made space between them.

"I want to," Caoilainn soothed, standing strong in spite of his distance. "Nathaniel will take my place. . .he’s not happy with the circumstances.” An even tone, the information delivered came as a report. The slightest hints of unease seeped through undertones.

“Of course he’s not.” Alistair scowled and rolled his eyes. The nauseated feeling in Alistair's stomach came with even the mention of her lieutenant's name.  A snarky grin curved his lips as he replied. “He can’t find a backhanded way to get what he wants.”

“Alistair," she pled, heartfelt and loving.  Caoilainn’s professionalism faltered. The worried wrinkle of her brow and an apologetic frown joined her request. “I'm sorry for everything, I want to prove it to you. But please be civil with him.”

“I make no promises." His grimace deepened. Alistair did not hide his distrust and loathing. “If he’s civil with me, I will return the favor.”

A man of his word, Caoilainn recognized Alistair's sincerity. Aware of the need to cut her losses, she accepted this justifiable response would be the best she would get from him. She nodded agreement of his terms. "Have you decided if you'll join me?"

They both knew what she meant. The ritual they woke for; the reason they dressed in darkness before dawn.  The reason Caoilainn came to Skyhold in the first place, coming to a head.

Before he could answer, another knock came at the door. "My dears! There is no time to dilly dally. The witching hour is upon us and we must begin."

* * *

Philippa’s nagging instigated Alistair’s bad mood; sleepy-eyed and begrudging, he joined Caoilann on her journey across the foggy Skyhold grounds. Vacant of stars, blocked by heavy clouds, the pitch-black sky shadowed their path. Swallowed by darkness, the light emitting from Philippa’s lantern offered only enough guidance for a few steps in front of them.

They reached a hidden door flush with the earth opened to a stairwell, leading down to the altar. Her palms became moist and the nervous flutter of Caoilainn's heart increased. The building anticipation as they entered the cave reminded her of the Joining; the fear she felt approaching the blood-filled chalice.

The rumbling of the ground lacked rhythm. Impossible to predict, long groans of thunder on the earth resonated through the cave. The hum of steady rain fell, muffled by the thick layer of dirt and rock between the shrine and the land above.

Air damp, heavy with mold, the watery altar rested deep within the cavernous hideaway. The sanctum of the elven ruins did not compensate for Alistair’s displeasure. Water dripped from an unknown source. Constant, reliable, every few seconds in pairs. _Drip, drip._ Grating, it made for a periodic reminder of his distrust of the entire operation.

But her faith instilled hope. Caoilainn had asked him to join her before they went to bed, knowing the ritual would occur today. But declined agreement did not equate refusal. Alistair gave a noncommittal “ _we’ll see_ .” Alistair’s certainty he wanted to bear witness propelled him. To give support as her partner and because he was curious; _will this work?_ The cure she sought for so long now a potential reality. Intrigued by possibilities, he joined his tenacious wife in her journey, independent of his participation.

Alistair watched from the wall, observant and watchful, but out of the way. Every step of this process, from the moment the sorceresses took her from his side forced his heart rate to excel. She grew further away, and his apprehension intensified.

Light linen fabric draped from long limbs, clinging to curves. The sorceresses had Caoilainn strip of all attire, including smallclothes and wear the linen gown. He watched them undress her, the powerful mages starting the ceremony by surrounding his queen. Grateful eyes overflowing with concern glimpsed his wife through the movement around her. _She’s nervous._ Caoilainn’s gaze darted, questioning; her brows creased. The notorious placement of her thumb between her teeth gave away her uncertainty.

But the women didn't stop because of it; they led Caoilainn to the shrine. Veilfire burned, quiet and unobtrusive, occasional grumbles of thunder vibrated the dancing light of the torches. Her feet bare against stones took light steps into the water, and the sorceresses released their hands as she paced further in. Water came to her thighs, the bottom of her gown soaked.

“Lay down, my dear,” Philippa ordered, a light motion with her palm invited Caoilainn to relax in the setting. “You’ll float.”

“More than usual,” Fiona added, her finger lifting as she offered the fact. “The water is cleansed of any impurities.”

 _Cleansed._ The word lingered for Caoilainn. Cool water seeped up linen, water purified of what made it unclean. She lowered in the water, leaning back and letting go. Buoyant upon the watery bed, Caoilainn waited. The liquid crept up the fabric, holding to her frame and edifying her fears. Deliberate breaths eased a fluttering heart; she shivered.

Alistair’s sleepy eyes found curious determination while they followed Caoilainn’s motions. Her steps into the altar, reclining alone in the pool. He studied the sorceress' actions. Morrigan grabbed a bottle from a nearby table and met Caoilainn's gaze. The witch had no preliminary actions for this ritual; ready to begin she started. Sweat beaded on his brow as he watched, his foot tapped with impatience.

Morrigan glared at him until he stopped, then looked back to Caoilainn. “This may not be pleasant,” The mage informed her friend as she glanced to the bottle Morrigan held in delicate fingers. The statement posed a question, an offer for Caoilainn to reconsider.

“Don’t tell me the details.” Eyes closed, prepared to accept whatever difficulty or pain could arise from the ritual, Caoilainn inhaled and clenched her fists. “I’ll do whatever I need to.”

 _Damn it._ Alistair shook his head, waking himself with realizing his wife's bravery and his need to join her. _I can’t let her do this alone._ “All right!” Alistair stepped forward, interrupting the women’s conversation, and taking off a boot as he walked. “All right, fine. Count me in.” He pulled off his other boot and glanced to Morrigan. “Do I get a fancy gown too?”

Despite his disdain for magic, he saw another journey for them as a couple.

Unamused, Morrigan gave a dead stare, and a delayed response. She grabbed another folded piece of fabric and tossed it to him. “Here. But hurry.” Alistair went to pull off his tunic in response to her order, but Morrigan’s scoffing stopped him. She turned around to face the other direction. Fiona shielded her eyes and Philippa scanned him changing with piqued interest.

Suspicious but amused of the activity that occurred outside of her field of view, Caoilainn grinned. And a moment later, Alistair stepped into the pool. Less graceful than when she descended, water splashed and rippled as he reclined next to her.

With a sideways glance, he gave a tired grin. “I couldn’t let you have all the fun without me.”

Caoilainn laced her fingers with his in response. Her eyes locked on the rocky ceiling, lips pulled in a weak smile. His presence eased the anxious twisting of her stomach. "Thank you," she murmured gratitude.

Morrigan returned to her place by the altar, leaning over to view the royal couple awaiting the next phase of this baptism. “Are you ready?” The slightest annoyance coated her tone.

Silence followed, Caoilainn did not respond. Alistair detected her held breath and whispered, "cold feet?"

She blinked and held her objectless stare above her. She squeezed Alistair's hand tighter. "Alistair, what am I if not a Warden?"

Alistair gave a knowing hum. Understanding her internal struggle, she asked the question he came to terms with soon after leaving the order, and worse when she left. Disconnection from the Grey Warden bond obligated him to learn to leave behind his affiliations. His sleepy haze fading, he gave her support. "That's for you to decide, my love. What do you want to be?"

She tucked her chin giving a subtle nod and a light hum. "I want to be by your side." A crystalline gaze peered up to the sorceress, a tired smile curved her lips. “I'm ready.” _To leave the Wardens._ Her eyes watered, hot tears pooling did not lessen her certainty. Weight lifted from her chest. The squeeze of Alistair’s hand preceded her question. “Are you ready, my King?”

"As I'll ever be," he yawned again, noticing the prominent and speedy beating of his heart. "Let's get this over with, shall we?"

Indifferent to their sentimentality, Morrigan closed her eyes. Pulling magical energy from the Fade, she tilted the bottle in her hand between Caoilainn and Alistair's heads. Putrid, steaming liquid flowed from the glass container into the clear water. Sinking, the potion spread as black tendrils maintained unique forms. Diffusing outward, the foul potion crept throughout the water. From their heads down to their feet, it surrounded the bodies of the couple. Fingers of potion reached, searching, grabbing their bodies.

Eyes clenched, Caoilainn gasped and Alistair made an uncomfortable groan. The potion found them, wrapping around their frames, invading their pores. Penetrating layers of cells and assaulting their bloodstreams, the potion connected with the taint. A shock, both Alistair and Caoilainn seized, frozen, writhing in pain.

"Oh," Fiona murmured stepping toward the shrine. Concern for her son, for his well-being and that of his wife's prompted her to interrupt; to stop Morrigan from continuing the ritual that may hurt them. But Philippa touched her shoulder. A simple shake of her head suggested Fiona stand down.

Pitch-black as the night sky, the depth of the water in which Caoilainn and Alistair floated appeared unfathomable. Rank and bubbling, the sorceresses had to cover their mouths to keep from breathing in the potent fumes. Writhing slowed, but scrunched faces and held breath showed their aching. Skin paled from exhaustion, depleted and contrasting with the bright blue of their veins, throbbing as the potion worked.

Morrigan's watchful eye and set tone followed these patterns with knowing expectation. She added a drop of red amidst the darkness. Blood of the Old Gods and dragons melded. Aggressive, fast, the red clouded, and shot through the fetid liquid to the King and Queen, Summoning the taint from within them. Red water divided black, opposing as unique consistencies. Swirling and moving, a shape formed from the blackness, running from the red. The ugly head, talons, and wings with details of scales defined by squalid fluids formed a snarling black dragon, sized proportionate to the shrine.

It emerged from the pool, dripping slick, greasy black onto the unconscious Caoilainn and Alistair, bodies limp, appearing lifeless. But the crimson fluid, potent and proud, clung to the monster, dragging it back into the depths of the pool. Screaming, the viscous dragon writhed with angry convulsions, splashing to fight back. The beast tried to escape the sticky scarlet fluid, pulling from the liquid's clutches with all its efforts.

The redness did not release, strangling and suffocating the evil creature. Strength and might overpowered the tainted projection, drawing it into the pool of red liquid between Caoilainn and Alistair. The dragon fell to the blood of Theirin. Crimson blanketed outstretched wings, enveloping the beast, up to its neck. A final cry, a last plea of tainted willpower shook the room as the head of the black dragon submerged in red.

The royal couple remained unmoving, shallow breaths the only sign of life. Pale forms floated in the aftermath, linens drenched with red. The thick fluid abated, ripples stilled. Darkness fell to life.

"Now," Philippa nudged Fiona, urging her forward.

With a solemn nod, the elven sorceress stepped forward. Pulling magic, her hands charged with energy as she knelt by the water's edge. Worried for the couple, disconcerted by their motionlessness, she channeled love. Affection and caring, something she would have otherwise withheld now given purpose. Her hands lay on the top of the water, healing energy released through the flow of magic. 

She spoke the incantation. Elven words, the old tongue summoning magical power from the Fade.

 

_"My elvar'linast'vir banalla in ma,_

_mala mar dun him elvyrlinor relinem_

_ma Jurosa su._

_Ladaral, tua'sal, tara tor elvyrlinor alas'en._

_Gaelathe i reast, ma ju ha'lam."_

_("In the wake of the battle of demons within you,_

_when your body is weak and depleted,_

_you will rise above._

_Healing, recovered, lifted from the tainted realm._

_Pure and clean, you will start anew.")_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH! And if you would care for some smut (sort of) I rewrote [Chapter 3 of Mother of Griffons.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6370990/chapters/14592367)


	12. Sunset

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Questions arise for Hale and Nathaniel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some NSFW story and NSFW art in this chapter.

 

 

 

  
[](http://etaeternum.tumblr.com/post/152481780836/hale-fox-the-huntress-haleharel-hale)            [](http://etaeternum.tumblr.com/post/153136650776/sweet-andraste-look-at-this-silver-fox-stud)

Art by [xla-hainex](http://xla-hainex.tumblr.com/)

 

The lazy afternoon dragged. Questions swirled for Hale as soon as she left Nathaniel's side. As if his company soothed her inner conflict, the moment she found herself alone the commotion resumed. Anger with Alanna, and Hale’s frustration with her own enticement with the offer her cousin made drove the inward battle. Introspective inquiries piled with each distracted step she took to her tent, forcing the huntress to suspend her brash nature. _What’s this with Nate, anyway? Is he why I’m still here? What happens when me and him are done?_ She found her quarters, immediately plopped onto her bedroll and leaned back. Skin still blotchy from crying, her hands covered her face, and she sighed.

The light from outside shined in as her tent flap opened. A questioning voice revealed the intruder. “What happened this morning, hun?” Damia’s hip cocked to one side; a hand positioned on the curve.

“It's nothing.” Hale's short reply came from behind her hands.

“You keep saying that like you think I'll believe you.” The rapid growth of the women’s friendship led them to understand each other’s habits. Nonverbal patterns, especially Hale’s quiet pouting was a telltale sign of her troubled mind. Damia sat next to Hale on her bedroll. “Come on, hun. Tell me... or we can romp if you'd rather.” Fingers hovered over Hale’s lean waist before lunging to tickle the huntress.

An uncontrollable laugh escaped Hale as she squirmed from Damia’s hands. Failing her attempt to frown, she chuckled. “Stop it!”  

Tickles ceased, but Damia stretched alongside her friend, ushering Hale to talk. “Come on then.” The older of the two, Damia often mentored the younger Warden.

Hale’s hands lowered from her face. She rolled on her side to face Damia and propped her head on her hand, but her eyes avoided Damia’s. She looked at a spot on the bedroll between them. “My cousin. Fucking Alanna. She wants me to stay here. . . and she made a damn good offer.”

A careful finger lifted Hale’s chin. Damia met Hale’s eyes. “So does that mean you’re considering?”

With a slow blink, Hale cursed, “bollocks, Damia.” She sighed, reconnecting their gaze. Hale’s free hand found Damia’s; fingers entwined, Hale stroked the inside of Damia’s palm with her thumb. “This is the closest thing I’ve ever felt to a family. I fucking love being with you and the scouts.”

“. . . And Lieutenant Howe,” Damia added, her hand breaking away from Hale’s grasp and petting the young huntresses head. A knowing smile tugged Damia’s lips.

Blushing, Hale held up a threatening finger between them, but her tone softened the gesture. “Shut it,” Hale giggled, “You know I ain't saying nothing about that.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” After another stroke of Hale's hair, Damia laced her fingers with the huntress’s again. Sincere, heartfelt, Damia's tone lowered. “Don't go, Lady Lavellan. Stay with us like you promised. Grey Wardens for life.” She gave her most charming smile.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Hale nodded. _She's right._ Truths lent to a conclusion: the oath she gave when she survived the Joining, feeling the taint coursing through her veins, commitments she upheld with more devotion than any she had in her life prior.

But Damia’s hand moving interrupted Hale’s ardent thoughts. Trained digits tickled tan skin, sneaking under the sleeves of Hale’s armor. Instinctive reflexes responded; Hale's eyes shot open, and she grabbed Damia's narrow wrist. A pleasing thought flooded her mind.

_Her wrist’s felt slender when he did the same, interrupting her activity when she lost herself in sensation. Rough hands applied gentle pressure, bringing her attention back to him._

“Hey,” Hale coaxed, “nobody calls me _Lady Lavellan_.” She restated the title and name with a posh inflection. The twinkle in her eye revealed humor through her serious facade.

Damia snorted. Grin widened, her body tensing to prepare for a playful skirmish. Practiced archers, both women’s toned frames readied for combat at any moment. Excitement built, merging with libido. Games of pleasured wrestling could be stimulated from any state. Damia goaded Hale, prepared for the young Warden's hot-tempered reaction. “I’m pretty sure I just did….”

_Wax dripped down the candle resting on the crate in his tent, like the beads of sweat running down his chest. She grinned, ready to pounce and go again._

Silence followed. Harsh eyes dared Damia. A wicked grin spread across the older Warden’s face; her lips parted, murmuring, “ _Lady Lavell-”_

The gibe was cut short as Damia gasped. With a swift launch from her propped arm, Hale toppled Damia onto the bedroll, pinning her wrists behind her. Triumphant, Hale’s chest puffed, boasting her victory over the Senior Warden. Smile unchanged, Damia chuckled from beneath Hale. Heart pounding with anticipation motivated the older Warden to show her fondness. She lifted her head off the blankets and placed a soft peck on the young Warden’s lips.

_When he gave soft kisses; blissful contrast to the salt-and-pepper stubble scratching her face. The flurry in her belly floated up to her chest, increasing her appetite and craving for more._

Surprised by Damia's tenderness, Hale’s grasp released Damia’s wrists and she leaned her body forward to reciprocate affection through fervor. Hale abandoned modesty; her lips held Damia's in a deeper kiss. Yearning, always fervent, Hale pressed harder. Tongues collided, pouting lips provoked speed, punctuated by nasally breaths. With a moan, the older Warden’s hands found Hale’s head. Digits framed the points of Hale’s ears. Heads swiveled; locked mouths prolonged their passionate bond. Speed increased as they acclimated play to ardor.

_As if a switch had been flipped, slow motions sped. Pressed lips parted, tongues twirling, hunger communicated passionate linguistics without words, longing for fulfillment. Captivated by the other, they reveled in each fervent moment of each kiss._

Hale’s urgent hands traveled between them, blindly unfastening straps on Damia’s armor; buckles found in familiar locations based on muscle memory alone. Damia did the same for Hale. Mirrored images, the women stopped in unison. Simultaneous breaths, shared grins, Hale pulled Damia’s gambeson from over her head. Actions flowed from one woman to the other; Damia helped Hale pull her armor off. Panting laughter escaped lips swollen from kissing. Bodies moved in sync with kisses.

_She pushed him down on the bedroll. Legs straddled him, a favorite position, trapping his hard member against his body, preventing entry. Her palms found his, pinning him, lacing her lithe fingers with his large hands. He smiled, chuckling at her dominance though both knew he could overpower her. She laughed along, moving his hands where she wanted._

The gap between them filled with wandering palms. Seeking warmth, soft flesh beneath fabric, Hale’s hurried fingers crept beneath Damia's shirt, tucking under her breastband. A breathy moan released, separating them as Hale kneaded, pawing Damia's chest with divided vigor.

_Her heat slid against him, teasing his pulsing erection with what awaited. She placed his hands on her chest, leaning so her breasts filled his wide grasp. Blushing, she gave a mischievous giggle, her sharp canine biting her lower lip. He rose to her chest, smirk spreading with a breathy chuckle._

The young Warden didn't skip a beat; lips searching for activity through her distraction found Damia's collarbone, then her neck. Hungry, devouring the older Warden's responses as rewards, Hale nibbled the lobe of Damia's ear. A giggling moan sounded from Damia, validating as Hale’s hand manipulated the tunic, bunching it up over Damia’s breasts, exposing her chest.

Hale’s eyes closed, her back curved as her eager mouth wandered, nudging the fabric of Damia’s clothes up with the bridge of her nose.

_His unshaven chin nudged her smooth flesh, propping it up as his flat tongue rose to meet the darker skin of her firm nipple. She held her breath, watching him with intensity, waiting for his next move._

Hale purred, satisfied with the circumstances when she focused. Hot breath taunted the perky, pink flesh of Damia’s nipple. The Senior Warden groaned again, and a tempted laugh transitioned to a covetous whimper. A tongue teased sensitive skin with clever flicks. Nerves alight, cool air touched moisture, swelling the sensitive skin. A tingling traced up her spine.

_A clever tongue lifted to meet tender tissue making her shriek. Shaking from laughter, she steadied by her hands on his shoulders so he could continue. Lip bitten, she nodded for more, eager for him to apply his array of techniques on her._

Rough-housing rarely evoked such heated affection. Hale applied slowed strategies of seduction distinct from the lively and rushed sparring the women often engaged. The setting sun made the tent grow darker.

_Passion drove action. She tangled his hair around her lengthy digits, tightening her grip as he indulged. He growled, smirking, teeth closing on the sensitive bud; his curved hand pressing her round flesh._

“I wonder who showed you how to do this,” Damia’s sultry whisper sounded, as she watched the huntress work.

The comment interrupted her thoughts of Nathaniel. Hale ignored Damia, certain her friend drew lines between her newfound technique and her alleged relationship with the Lieutenant. Unwilling to confirm, motivated by the heat building between her legs, Hale applied another learned tactic. Her hand found the other breast, steadying herself as she followed one talent with another. Teeth grazed taut, pink tissue. The action delayed, taunting Damia. She held her breath until Hale's teeth constricted and tugged.

_She made a satisfied whimper, her body squirming as he tugged. He played with intensity, listening to her moans as he increased the taughtness of her tender skin and the pressure of his teeth. The thumb and middle finger of his other hand pinched her free and_ _hardened nipple. Hips naturally rolled forward, navigating him to enter._

“Maker!” Damia yelped, a hand traveling from Hale’s hips to her head, stroking umber hair.

As if she had been summoned by the cry, Hale's shadowed eyes opened and locked with Damia's. The huntress grinned without releasing, gratified by her friend’s ecstatic fidgeting though frustrated with the intrusion of her fantasy. Lips surround flesh, Hale created suction. Growling, she pulled the bundle of tissue into her mouth, palm pressing Damia's chest; skin tightened as Hale massaged contented handfuls of plump roundness.

Opposing dynamics of force heightened sensation. Damia gave another impressed groan, petting Hale’s hair as the huntress pursued; her insistent and vibrating mouth practicing this new method with her eyes closed and concentrated, returning to her recollections of Nathaniel.

“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?” Damia disrupted Hale’s method once again, calling out the distracted young Warden’s distance.

Hale halted. “Damia. . .” she gave a soft murmur, sighing.

Damia’s brow wrinkled before her smile returned. Taking advantage of Hale’s state of shock, she rolled her weight. Palm to shoulder, Damia toppled Hale from her position over to bring her flat on her back. Straddling the huntress, Damia grinned with pride. “Somebody’s smitten.”

Cheeks red, Hale blinked away bewilderment; she gave an embarrassed smile. “I’m not-”

Before she could finish her sentence, Gunnar’s moving voice yelled from outside. “Someone must’ve twisted Howe’s smalls!” Clanks of armor falling to the ground echoed his complaint to anyone sitting in the encampment willing to listen. “He came out of a meeting in the Commander's tent and started yelling training orders.”

Damia’s brow lifted, she questioned the huntress for information in a low voice. “Does he know what your cousin offered? We all know he fancies you.”

Rolling her eyes to curtail her blushing, Hale gave a silent nod. She tilted her head to the tent flap, suggesting they leave. Nervous curiosity of Nathaniel’s conversation with the Warden Commander caused a pit to grow in her stomach.

The women rose from the ground, pulling their shirts down to hide evidence of their tussle. Brushing down disheveled hair with their hands, the archers emerged from Hale’s tent.

Sitting fireside sharpening arrowheads, Isenam’s eyes narrowed as the women joined the scouts. His humorless glare traveled back to the pointed obsidian. He muttered in elvhen, “ _ahn vis isa haman emen’him eireth.” (Maybe his bed has gone cold.)_

Most of the scouts didn’t hear him, the elegant speech drowned out by the sound of the crackling fire. But Hale heard. Chin jutted, her teeth ground as she glowered at Isenam.

An unexpected ally, Ashiwyn, the Dalish woman from the Brecilian Forest, spoke up. _“Ahn vis ehn sul'ema iseth isa haman te’el telsilaun.”_ _(_ “ _Maybe who warms his bed is not our concern.”)_ Sitting to her right, her twin, Saeris made a hum of agreement . The elven woman gave a supportive smile to Hale who nodded in thanks.

“Hello!” Gunnar waved his arms and called to the conversing elves. “We’re all still right here, you know.”

Saeris snickered and answered on their behalf. “Go on, Gunnar. You have all our ears. Whine away.” The rest of the group chuckled; Gunnar’s cheeks flushed bright red. He did not continue his complaints and instead, the group settled around the fire for the evening.

“You want some wine with that. . .whine?” Lisbeth grumbled as she reached into her pack and grabbed a bottle she confiscated from the tavern. She passed it around the circle to Gunnar who took it with a grumble of gratitude and uncorked it with his knife.

Torn between the temptation to stay for evening festivities and her concern for Nathaniel, Hale stood silent. Detecting Hale’s indecision, Damia nudged Hale with her hip. Her head tilted back, suggesting she go toward the Lieutenant’s tent. Grateful for her friend’s subtle advice, Hale signaled agreement with a dip of her head. A moment later, when the group seemed preoccupied with its new activity, Hale slipped from the circle around the campfire to find the Lieutenant.

 

 

 

 

 

 

[ ](http://etaeternum.tumblr.com/post/153149930496/artwork-riku-noiro-more-art-another-rendition)

Artwork © [Riku-Noiro](http://riku-noiro.deviantart.com/)

* * *

 

Pink and orange coalesced, bright colors radiating the evening sky as the sun set. The trainees dwindled as the daylight waned, leaving with complaints, griping about the rigorous exercise Nathaniel had ordered. Nathaniel found himself alone in the training yard as the other Wardens dispersed to find meals and rest. He walked toward his tent.

Frustration with pending responsibilities lingered, resting on his chest, tight like a bowstring. It made an effective diversion from the looming weight of deeper turmoil. Taking on the role of Warden Commander, something he once thought of favorably in passing, now imminent and daunting. Caoilainn, the Mother of Griffons, she who resurrected the order from near extinction, held a substantial reputation for him to uphold. And like her, Nathaniel would be without guidance for how to assume the role due to Caoilainn’s ambitious pursuit of leaving the Wardens.

Overdue animosity between Nathaniel and Alistair erupted before the battle at the Arbor Wilds. In addition to bad blood between them, the King’s minimal experience as a Warden, working with Weisshaupt, and commanding an army without the aid of a surplus of advisors led Nathaniel to believe contacting him would be unwise. Beneath the minutiae of the obligation, the underlying fears surfaced. _Am I worthy of this position? Can I live up to Caoilainn?_

Caoilainn’s intractable nature, bull-headed and unwilling to bend to anyone’s whims but her own infuriated him. The ease at which she abandoned her role, one for which she devoted countless hours of time and energy, unnerved him. _Damn it._ He shook his head as he walked, recognizing deeper sadness beneath the agitation. _She’s casting_ me _aside._ Despite layers of inappropriate dynamics for their relationship- her as his commander, the married Queen of Ferelden, younger sister of his childhood friend, and one of two survivors of the treachery of his father- Nathaniel and Caoilainn formed an odd friendship; coworkers with a long history who also engaged in casual sexual encounters, maintained by commitment to rules and mutual regard. Though he didn’t understand what drew her back to Alistair, Nathaniel would have heeded her decision. But he wasn’t given a chance; it was too late. Alistair’s requirements for no communication forced her to leave their friendship completely.

Under his initial anger with Caoilainn for complying with Alistair’s stipulation, disturbed by the effortlessness of her actions and disgusted with the King’s exploitation of power to control his wife, Nathaniel comprehended Alistair’s need for security. _It doesn’t make it right._ Alistair's requirement diminished the duty of Warden Commander and strengthened Nathaniel’s enmity toward the King.  But surprising to himself, and though the hated to admit it, Nate found broken understanding for the allure of monogamy- something he had never grasped until this point. _Huntress._ With a defeated sigh, he entered his tent.

Quiet, eschewing the changes ahead, he took off his boots and lowered to his bedroll. Stretching out, he covered his face with his hands and sighed.

“It’s ‘cause you’re gonna be Commander soon, innit?” Hale’s worried lilt came from the entryway. She concluded the reason for his exhaustion, the tired lines wrinkling his face. Nathaniel raised on his forearms to greet her. Her body stretched a long shadow across the tent as the last of the day’s light diminished.  

“Among other things,” Nathaniel grumbled though his lips couldn’t resist a fatigued smirk for the huntress. He lay back down and stared at the roof of his tent.

Wordless, Hale took determined steps to Nate, pulling off her boots on the way. She noticed herself respecting his space, converse to times when she walked on his bedroll with her boots on, apathetic to any mess she made. She made more effort to keep her items in some semblance of order when she stayed in his tent. Her own willingness to comply amused her as she sat beside him. Her legs stretched a fraction of the distance of his elongated body.

“Well,” she offered with a shrug, improvising how she could help him based on how he helped her that morning. Her fiery personality remained subdued from the meaningful morning they shared. “I’m here. We don’t have to talk ‘bout shite if you don’t wanna.” Hale’s tenuous timbre betrayed her insecurity, unsure if she could aid him with her company alone, but too stubborn to say nothing.

Calloused fingers spread wide, Nathaniel’s hand extended to Hale’s back. Circular motions desired to allay her fear and soothe his own through contact. Hale’s body eased, shoulders rounding to allow more range for his open-handed massage.

Appreciating her response, the huntress’s enjoyment of his touch improved his mood. “I’m fine,” he mumbled, grinning.

Her head made a casual roll to face him. Forehead bowed, her eyes wandered up to stare with humored doubt. She attempted to copy his gruff tone and accent. “You don’t have to lie either.” A toothy smile spread on her face and she moved away from his hand to lie next to him. She continued to quote him from earlier, “tell me what you need.”

“Clever,” he chuckled as his arm moved to allow her beneath it; Hale’s chin nestled on Nate’s chest. He weighed the option of telling her his troubles if at all and how much. _Would it help?_ _Would it cause harm?_ Without clear answers, he replied with facts. “I have little choice in several obligations.”

“So do you wanna talk about it or something?” She asked, remembering what options he afforded her that morning. Her tone was curious, but she withheld from urging explanation, more from the uncertainty of her ability to help than patience.

“Not really,” he smirked as he declined, faces barely visible in the dark tent, illuminated only by distant firelight. The lighthearted answer prevented disconnection, continuing to welcome rather than reject her warmth. “At this point, I want to sleep.”

Hale hummed harmony with his wish. With unspoken consonance, both removed their outer layers of armor and returned to Nate’s bedroll. They shared the tight space, tucked under blankets, in a similar position. Hale’s head and upper body rested on Nate’s chest, his arm wrapped around her back.

Hale yawned and snuggled closer, sprawling a leg over his and shimmying into the ideal position. A passing inquiry of the status quo came to mind. “What happens to us when you become Commander?” She wondered to herself in retrospect, _whatever the fuck ‘us’ is, anyway._

Brow creased, he reflected. _I hadn’t thought of that._ Nate realized his distrait demeanor had not considered this factor, having been preoccupied with other worries. And once again, he did not have clarity to provide. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

Appeased by this response, Hale allowed her mind to settle. She relished the warmth and comfort of Nathaniel’s body after the eventful day and noted he provided it without contingency. Cuddling, a unique aspect of their meetings, she assumed a perk of sleeping with the Lieutenant now came without prerequisite. _Guess we don't always have to plough,_ she minimized the encounter _._ The pleasing buzz of the Grey Warden bond, now purring stronger than ever, sated the stimulus to speculate the occurrence.

Slumber quickly found the tired couple.

* * *

 

_9:37 Dragon- Vigil's Keep_

_"Wait. What happened?" Caoilainn laughed before biting from her bread-roll and drinking from her tankard. Relaxed for the evening, the Warden Commander joined her comrades. Hungry Wardens filled the dining hall, wolfing down food and drink before returning for seconds. Sounds of livelihood, laughter, dishes and mugs clanking forced her and Nathaniel to talk louder about mission he took in the Free Marches._

_"We were scouting a Deep Roads entrance in the Marches that had been closed off years ago," Lieutenant Howe explained, shaking his head, still in disbelief. Sitting across from Caoilainn, his plate of food barely eaten, he grinned. "The locals reported strange activity, bones around the entrance, and noises every time someone neared, but no deaths or sightings."_

_"All right. I'm listening," she chuckled, still confused about the details. She took another swig of ale and waited._

_"It was a group of kids. They stole bones from the butcher's and spread them around the cave. Then those little thieves snagged wine from the tavern and took it back to their appropriated cavern to get drunk. Each time a villager neared, they started snorting and hollering like animals so the town thought they were darkspawn." Nathaniel smirked as he elaborated; he took a bite of seasoned chicken._

_"Maker," Caoilainn laughed again, her palm rising to her forehead, elbow resting on the table. A reminiscent thought of Nate’s friendship with her brother came to mind. "You know, that sounds just like something you and Fergus would've done."_

_"You mean did do," Nathaniel informed after he swallowed his food. He took a drink and continued.  "You were at one of your mother's tea parties. We managed to roll a whole keg of ale out of the cellar. We spent the whole day trying to drink it all." Beaming with pride, he boasted his and Fergus’s accomplishment._

_"I think I remember that." Caoilainn recalled, brow furrowing, humor faded. "You both stumbled into the banquet hall when it was time for you to leave. Fergus nearly fell over before he retched into an urn. I thought your father was going to kill you."_

_Frowning, Nate's amusement with the nostalgic memory was lost to the reality of his father's violent temperament. "I did too. It was yet another mark on my record,” he disclosed. His eyes studied his hands, at a loss for a way to change the subject._

_Aware the girl from his childhood knew of his father’s character, prone to lying and manipulation for the sake of personal gain, Nate presumed she had also deducted Rendon’s tendency to inflict pain on his children. Caoilainn seemed to recognize his eagerness to find a new topic. "So what did you do with those kids in the Marches? They could've been attacked by wild animals."_

_Gratitude for her empathy, he smiled and leaned back in his chair, taking advantage of the way out of bad memories. "We scared them out. A bunch of Grey Wardens rushing in with weapons was enough. I doubt they'll be doing that again.”_

_Tankard finished, Caoilainn sat it down and rose from her seat. Still entertained by his story, she inquired further, but her body language communicated her readiness to retire for the night. “So what did you tell the townsfolk?”_

_Plate only half finished, Nathaniel shirked his shoulders. “We said we took care of it; claimed the leftover wine as a reward.”_

_With a roll of her eyes, Caoilainn shook her head and snorted. “Good job, Nate.” She patted him on the back. “I'll see you tomorrow, Lieutenant.”_

* * *

 

With a sharp intake of breath, Nathaniel’s eyes shot open; panting, he sat upright. The huntress beside him gave a sleepy groan without rising. New to the Grey Warden bond, the Junior Warden did not suffer the same sensitivities to its fluctuations.

Long before dawn, the pitch-black tent gave no indication of the disturbance that woke him. Discomfort, not quite pain, spread from his heart. Nate’s hand touched his chest for the source of inner tumult. The circulating taint perceived significant loss, a permanent absence from the Grey Warden’s collective energy. _Caoilainn._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear what you think about the story! Feel free to leave comments! And feel free to find more art at [etaeternum.tumblr.com/motherofgriffons](etaeternum.tumblr.com/motherofgriffons) (feel free to follow and let me know who you are!)


	13. Resignation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caoilainn and Alistair wake from the ritual

The spell infused with water. Glowing blue and green clouds set forth from Fiona's hands like smoke within liquid. It reached the couple, and spread throughout the red liquid, cleansing it once more.

The unconscious royal couple remained floating, gowns stained red in the clean shrine. Cautious sorceresses gathered, watchful of any movement, waiting for signs of success of their combined efforts.

“Let them rest for a moment,” Morrigan instructed, her lowered voice reverberating through silence.

Delayed seconds passed, accented by the distant dripping of water. The mages made uncomfortable shifts, frustrated with the delay in the pair’s recovery. But color returned to Alistair and Caoilainn's skin, masking the prominence of bright blue veins. Deeper breaths gathered, pulling in more air as the water purified.

A ripple interrupted Fiona and Philippa’s impatient glances.

Alistair’s hand twitched, fingers stirring the clear pool. Facial muscles scrunched, and unpleasant frown found Caoilainn’s face. A low groan sounded, followed by a pained exhalation.

She opened her eyes, blinking to adjust to the dim light. The mages watched as Caoilainn's eyes searched around her, scanning right and left to identify her location as she kept her body still. But Alistair wiggled. A leg lowered into the depth of the pool, throwing off his buoyant balance. A woosh sounded, along with his grunt as his arms submerged, aiding his return to floatation. Panting, cheeks tinged, he allowed the water to settle, giving Caoilainn a sideways glance. She stifled a tired laugh.

“How do you feel?” The Witch of the Wilds queried the King and Queen. Morrigan moved from the head of the watery altar to the side to meet their eyes, surveying them with a critical stare.

“I don’t feel anything.” Forehead wrinkling, Caoilainn closed her eyes again.

“I don’t feel that much different,” Alistair admitted. He shrugged as he looked from Morrigan to Caoilainn who tilted her head back, cooling fair skin at her hairline with moisture. He deliberately lowered his legs into the water, allowing them to meet the floor of the shrine. Water rushed from his frame as he rose. He gazed down to Caoilainn. “Can you stand?”

A feeble whimper responded. She moved to gain footing and stood. But she wobbled, shaky legs fumbled, and she lost balance; Alistair caught her. Without direction from the witches, Alistair took initiative, lifting Caoilainn out of the water and stepping from the altar. Soaked clothes on damp bodies emerged; splashes fell to the stone floor before easing to droplets. Though she didn’t resist Alistair’s support, the Queen made an irritated noise.

Alistair’s quizzical glance faced the sorceresses. “Is this supposed to happen?”

Morrigan ignored his question and looked to Caoilainn directly. “Can you feel taint’s pull?”

Struggling in Alistair’s arms, Caoilainn shifted her weight to show the desire to stand. Alistair followed, precise and delicate, he lowered her legs to the ground without letting go. Shaking, burdened by dripping clothes, she held onto Alistair’s upper arm for balance. Body numb, senses slowly awakening to the cold temperature of the cave, soreness of her body and mind, Caoilainn gave a small shake of her head.

“I feel little apart from this headache,” she whispered, disheartened. A weak hand lifted to her brow as a heavy heart determined the struggle, years of searching, waiting for a promise of the cure had been for naught. “I don’t think it worked.”

“My dear,” Philippa’s matter-of-fact intonation sang over the sounds of water dripping. “Say what you will. I do not know what, but something did indeed happen when you lost consciousness.”

“We could check.” Alistair gazed at Caoilainn who still balanced herself with his support. He placed a hand on her opposite hip, showing endearment while keeping her upright. He gave an awkward chuckle, “does anyone have any darkspawn lying around?”

Frowning, Morrigan snapped. “Idiot. If the cure worked, you aren’t immune to the taint anymore.” Morrigan’s curious stare maintained the insult as it traveled from Caoilainn to Alistair. “‘Tis critical you heal before making such attempts. You may check the bond with the army of Wardens above ground after you've rested.”

“Oh, right. That.” His words stumbled; the obvious answer stung, provoking introspection. _How could I forget?_ The Grey Wardens, the first likeness to home Alistair experienced, gifted to him by Duncan well before the fateful day at Ostagar, saving him from the dogmatic views of the Chantry. The order gave him home. And he forgot, allowed it slip from his memory from years spent removed from the Wardens when he became King. Guilt occupied optimism for the promises of the cure. But his remorse was delayed by Caoilainn’s swaying.

“Whoa there,” Alistair commented, moving to provide more support, lacking confidence in her ability to hold her balance. It was warranted; her eyelids fluttered and her eyes rolled up in their sockets as her knees buckled. Alistair caught her before she fell, bringing the unconscious Queen to lay slack in his arms. “What is wrong with her?” Alistair asked; a harsh stare meeting Morrigan’s eyes. The other mages remained silent, wary of the interaction between Alistair and Morrigan.

“You may have had the taint in your blood longer, Alistair,” Morrigan reproached. Her judgmental glare scanned Alistair’s strength in the wake of the ritual. “But you’ve been removed. Her body is in shock of the sudden lack of immersion.”

Something similar to jealousy sparked within him; Morrigan’s explanation suggested Caoilainn’s bond to the Wardens was more significant than his. And to an extent, it was true; the logic stung. But words connected and Alistair’s eyes grew larger. _That means it worked. We’re free of the taint._ The significance of this understanding preceded annoyance with Morrigan. “You could have said that _before_ she tried to stand on her own and fainted.”

The Witch of the Wilds waved his words away with her hand. “Don’t be a fool, Alistair. ‘Tis unwise to add emotional stress to one whose body has undergone such anguish. Take her to your room, let her sleep.”

So he did. The sorceresses helped him dry Caoilainn and change her in her stupor. Alistair followed suit, finding privacy and taking off the wet layer of cloth to put on his clothes. Dried enough and changed, he picked up his fatigued wife. Though she made a tired cry, adrift in unconsciousness, she didn’t resist.

“I’ll help,” a timid voice sounded with an Orlesian cadence. Fiona saw the fleeting moment passing: the chance to help her son and hear of his experience of the cure from the taint. Despite the discomfort of maintaining composure through the secret, her caring conquered. She picked up Caoilainn’s boots and a few remaining articles as Alistair took Caoilainn back to their room. Dawn approached; it was bright enough for them to see in the deserted courtyard.

“How are you?” The older mage asked with vigilance, curious to hear his encounter. Philippa and Morrigan’s concerns for Caoilainn overshadowed Alistair, she recognized; his loss undermined by the significance of Caoilainn’s.

The former Grand Enchanter who committed treasonous acts in Redcliffe and cost the lives of Fereldans joined Alistair’s walk back to the room. And now she asked him how he felt. _There’s nothing weird about this at all._ He overlooked the odd circumstance considering the events of the morning and pondered her inquiry. Caoilainn’s limp body nuzzled against his, Alistair’s adjusted his arms around her back and under her legs to support her weight. His eyes traveled to the sky as he allowed Fiona’s question to settle.

The reality of feeling unchanged still rang true, aside from a few minute details he noticed in their absence. He blurted, “I’m not hungry.” The fact was a pleasing revelation. “Well, I’m hungry. It’s time for breakfast. But I’d be fine with a cup of tea and a bowl of porridge. . . not a four-course meal, or two.”

Fiona nodded, considering her distant recollections of being without the taint. Watchful of Alistair with a sideways glance, the two approached a side entrance near the tavern. Fiona opened the door for the King. Having spent far less time with the taint than Alistair, she knew her experience would pale compared to his. But memories of being studied by Weisshaupt flooded her mind; the antagonism shown to her by the leaders of the order for her accidental cure was something Alistair would not have to endure. And for that she was grateful.

His gratitude intruded her thoughts. “Thank you,” Alistair muttered. Avoiding her eyes as he proceeded through the doorway.  
She replied with a passive hum as the door shut behind her, assuming his thanks was for the favor she provided.

“For saving her, I mean,” Alistair clarified, resuming his walk toward his room with a distant gaze; Fiona continued alongside. Despite his previous bitterness with the woman, he owed her gratitude. “If you hadn’t been there, she would have. . . died.” He paused before the final word, facing the harsh potential reality became easier as space grew between him and the event.

Emotions swelled in response, heartwarming and sad; her brow creased, and she shook her head. “Thank the Maker,” she asserted; more a demand than an acclimation. Her difficulty accepting his appreciation deflected the intensity. Discouraged by her desire to flee from this interaction she sought but a moment ago, Fiona minimized her contribution. “It was He who willed it. I only performed the task given to me by the Inquisition.” What pretense of motherly love she shared with Alistair when she grieved with him in her vision was misplaced in this discussion.

 

_"Do you know what it's like to lose the person you care about most? To spend every moment hoping you're about to wake from a bad dream? Do tell, Fiona. How would you know that?" Alistair interrogated; doubtful and upset by her attempt to empathize._

_The intimidating man asked questions with answers he couldn't comprehend. Stalling, she blinked to clear the mist from her eyes and took a deep breath. "The Maker plays clever tricks, King Alistair. I know profound loss and the unfathomable sadness that accompanies."_

_She saw the desperation in his eyes, sensing her sadness akin to his own. Brow furrowed, face red from angered confusion, Alistair's tears fell. "What could you possibly know about profound loss?"_

_Remorse for the tragic truth left unsaid, Fiona showed what empathy she could "More than you could imagine, your Majesty. I came to speak with you before you departed because I know the difficulty of this decision. If you find a cure… do you choose to live longer with this sadness? Or do you follow the fate ordained by the order and allow the Calling to take you?"_

_His teeth clenched as his thumb and middle finger rubbed tears from his eyes. Alistair gave a tired, wry laugh, "hah, yes. I suppose I face quite the conundrum. Thanks for pointing that out."_

_Years of regret, doubts for her actions, she channeled caring in her guidance. "The sadness will worsen before you heal from it. But remember: you will heal. You have much left to gain and much left to give in this life."_

 

“I’m indebted,” Alistair glanced to Fiona at his side. Urged to show he valued her generosity and selflessness, he took a deep breath to continue.

“No, you’re not.” She retorted, glancing up at him as they walked. _I owe you that much, Alistair._ The riposte culminated from guilt for her absence and omitting truths every boy deserved to know: the love of his mother, the warmth of her touch, and the sound of her voice. “Please, King Alistair. After what I allowed to happen in Redcliffe, you owe me nothing.”

She knew he suffered as a child before his conscription to the Wardens. And Alistair’s burdens to the Theirin bloodline found him in spite of her best efforts to ensure his freedom. _As the Maker saw fit._ Self-directed anger and heartache brimmed, tamed only by the certainty he must not know the truth about her. The disaster at Redcliffe added another regret to Fiona’s long list of failures to Alistair.

“About that,” he mumbled, reminded of his displeasure with Fiona’s actions early in the Inquisition’s mission. His steeled gaze stared straight ahead; posture straightening as he thought.

Responsibility as king presided; the mage had abused Ferelden’s hospitality, bringing catastrophe with her. Her banishment was reasonable. But the strange powers of the greater enemy could not be ignored, and Fiona’s service to the Inquisition disproved his assumptions she belonged to the enemy. The nervous woman he chastised in the Chantry in Redcliffe had been replaced by a confident and considerate mage, but a deep sadness remained consistent in her intense stare.

Alistair neared his room and Fiona opened the door for him again. “I can’t simply pardon you, Grand Enchanter Fiona. It’s not that simple. You’ve upset far too many people in my council alone for me to lift your banishment without pushback.”

“Fiona,” she echoed, clarifying his statement. She put down the Queen’s items and waited to speak while Alistair crossed the room. Caring motions, she watched the delicate attention Alistair gave as he laid Caoilainn on their bed before turning to face Fiona. _He looks so much like his father._ “It’s just Fiona now. And I did not heal your wife with the expectation of payment, your Majesty. Nor am I seeking amnesty in Ferelden. I merely did what was called of me. Now that you have made it to your room, I should go.”

The small elven woman’s stubborn posture stood strong in the doorway, shifting her stance to leave. It triggered an odd appreciation from Alistair; a unique feeling, one he couldn’t explain, like impressed irritation or annoyed endearment. “Wait,” he muttered, lifting a hand in her direction. Fiona stopped; the slight turn of her head allowed her to face Alistair.

His mouth formed a small grin. “I wasn’t finished. Say I can maneuver around the protocol of your banishment, can I call on you if I find myself in need of the advice of a former Grand Enchanter?”

Fiona’s views on the division of the Circle of Magi and the Chantry were strong, but in the wake of the Mage-Templar War Alistair was certain change would be imperative. Her perspective may aid in his decision making. Politics aside, he needed to show gratitude to the sad, stubborn woman.

She stared baffled before nodding. “Your Majesty.” She turned to leave again but looked back. “I’ll send for breakfast for yourself and the Queen on my way out.” The statement lingered along with her frame, still in the doorway. With a deep breath, she added, “you’re the king Ferelden needed. Your father would be proud.” The final words slipped before she could consider their consequence. She gave another nod and fled, observing the faint furrow of Alistair’s brow in her departure.

* * *

A messenger delivered two bowls of porridge and a pot of steeping tea to Alistair and Caoilainn’s room shortly after the former Grand Enchanter left. Sitting in absent contemplation, Alistair pondered Fiona’s last statement. ‘ _Your father would be proud.’_ He had heard similar messages from other nobles who knew Maric, but the comment coming from an Orlesian Circle Mage was unexpected; it riled questions. _How does she know my father would be proud?_

But in his unwillingness to leave Caoilainn’s side, prevented him from seeking answers. After eating his small meal and drinking his tea, comfort won over curiosity. Alistair chose to lay next to Caoilainn and rest through the morning.

His head touched the pillow and her sleeping body naturally conformed to make room for his on the bed. He smiled at her unconscious movement. Without waking Caoilainn rolled on her side, inched near Alistair, and placed a hand on his chest. A sigh released, and her breathing resumed its languid pace.

Alistair realized he did not feel the buzz of the Grey Wardens bond. But even if the taint no longer coursed through his blood and his body had been freed from craving the connection to the collective, his predilection for this particular woman was sustained. Laying with her warmed his heart.

_Did she ever lay like this with Howe?_

The jealous thought diverted his loving reflection. Though the love that brought him across Ferelden to find her had endured through her infidelity, wary thoughts loomed. Old resentments resurfaced with the pressure of the cure seemingly lifted. Frustration with himself shrouded his disappointment in Caoilainn for the affair. _I forgave her._ He attempted to clear his mind and doze off. But she stirred, distracting his attention from insecure doubts. Alistair’s eyes focused with long blinks, he watched her do the same.

“Good morning,” he smiled, looking down his upper body to her. Caoilainn glanced up at him and with slow motions, she sat up to gaze around the room. Her equilibrium stable, the Queen seemed to have recovered her strength. While she reoriented herself with their location, Alistair continued. “Or afternoon probably. Somewhere in there. Are you feeling better?”

“What happened?” She asked, her hand rising to her forehead from the remnants of her headache.

Squinting to study her reactions, Alistair recapped their morning using his fingers to count the key points. Caoilainn’s wide, silvery eyes met his as he explained. “We got very wet. The sorceresses did the ritual. I can’t remember that part. Then we woke up, and you fell over.”

Caoilainn attempted to gather her own memories from the ritual. The water, Alistair joining her, then blackness. “I don’t remember waking up.” She lowered her hand from her forehead to her chest, something felt wrong. An enigmatic incompleteness ran through her. “Did the ritual work? How are you?”

“I think so. The ritual didn’t affect me like it did you. We still have to receive the final verdict on the cure.” Consistent monitoring prompted Alistair to rise from the bed. He neared her side before she stood to help in the event she fainted again. “Do you think you can stand?”

She made an affirming hum and stood from the bed. Muscles tight, she stretched to awaken a stiff body. In lengthening her frame, Caoilainn caught sight of the cooled porridge and tea. “Is that food?” Her gaze traveled to Alistair. “For me? I’m so hungry.”

“How hungry?” He blurted, inquiring with a worried tone. The slight furrow of his brow joined his frown as he waited for her answer, watching Caoilainn walk to the table.

Caoilainn shrugged, fixing her tea and weighing the meal’s ability to satisfy her hunger. “This is fine.” Realizing what she said, her eyes grew larger, and she faced Alistair. “No. Does that- Do you think? Is this-”

Unfinished questions trailed off. Alistair grinned and rolled his hand to hurry her. Exasperated and amused, he ordered, “eat and we’ll go find out!”

With a nod, Caoilainn took the bowl of porridge and the cup of tea back to the bed. Sitting cross -legged, she inquired more about his experience. Curious about the details of changes and loss of subtle reminders of the taint. Nodding along as he spoke, she ate her food scanning her own body for similar results and trying to ignore the simmering sadness beneath the excitement.

* * *

 

The Warden camp bustled with activity from early morning through the afternoon. Frenzied voices of Senior Wardens queried the shift in bonded energy, the strange discomfort that woke them this morning.

_‘Did you feel it?’ ‘What was that?’ ‘Has anyone seen the Warden Commander?’_

Without answers to their anxious inquiries, Wardens sought answers from those in command. Nathaniel made his best efforts to calm the worried crowds though most were displeased by the lack of explanation. Absorbed in the shared panic, Junior Wardens asked for information none had to offer.

The shift in energy sparked dread, worry for their brethren. In death, the loss of a Warden created a small ripple in the collective as the energy filtered into the earth. Sacrifice, a possible consequence of a Warden’s commitments respected with sorrow by the rest of the army.  
But this was different. A loss of catastrophic proportions and more permanent than death created a shockwave to the bond. Forces that existed in the connection long before any of the Warden army had been removed. The Wardens felt the impact without understanding the cause.

Nathaniel kept his suspicions of the catalyst to himself. Bombarded with questions from Wardens, he attempted to pacify worried minds, encouraging practice and training, assuring answers would come later.

“Lieutenant,” Isenam approached Nathaniel as he directed another to the training yard. With an exasperated sigh, Nate turned to face his elven colleague. Val and the twins stood behind Isenam, passing puzzled glances between them. “Do you have any answers on what happened? Will it threaten our safety?”

After another line of questions, Nathaniel released an exasperated sigh. Caoilainn’s brashness being a threat to the Wardens had not crossed his mind, but Isenam’s inquiry was valid. _Will this weaken the bond?_ In the defeat of an Archdemon, impairment of the darkspawn’s hive-mind occurred in the aftermath. _Could this be the same?_

“I don’t know,” Nathaniel admitted, shaking his head. The knot in his stomach worsened with the imminence of his obligation to assume the role of Commander. “We must find out.”

Isenam’s mouth opened, prepared to ask another question, but a growing silence in the body of Wardens nearby stopped him. Through the activity of the morning, the sudden quiet amidst alarm called their attention. The group looked toward the source.

She had arrived, the Mother of Griffons. With a timid walk and Alistair at her side, she gazed around her, nearing the center of camp. Nathaniel noticed the curious fear and astonishment cast across her face. _I guess it worked._

Eyes seeking the depth of the bond in the eyes of each of her Wardens found nothing. The gaping hole in her chest doubled in size with each step she took. Each terrified face she laid eyes on, staring back at her in dismay filled her with shame. _Blood of my blood._ Her heart longed for their connection, now nothing but a severed imprint. In her selfish desires, she had abandoned them. Tears pooled, swelling while she took slow steps toward the center of camp.

Confused murmurs echoed around her.

_‘What happened?’_

_‘What does this mean?’_

_‘We can’t feel you in the bond.’_

Alistair placed a supportive hand on Caoilainn’s back. At a loss for words, he gave his support though his touch. She closed her eyes and lowered her head. Regret taunted apprehensive excitement. Freedom from the order, the taint, and the opportunity to have a child now conflicted with the feelings stirred by the scared faces of her Wardens. _I’ve got to do this,_ she reminded herself. Heart sinking and tears dispelled by blinks, she took a deep breath. With grieving gaze over her army, Caoilainn spoke.

“Blood of my blood,” she called, her voice trembling through the lie. This meeting confirmed Caoilainn and Alistair no longer shared blood with the Grey Wardens. She swallowed, stifling sobs with intermittent blinks before her gaze locked with Nathaniel’s. “I have been honored to rebuild this order with many of you by my side. The Ferelden Wardens are stronger now than they have been in hundreds of years. It is with a heavy heart I inform you of my resig-”

Heart hurting from the words she needed to deliver, and guilt multiplied by the frantic glances from her soldiers, Caoilainn stopped. Avoiding their eyes, she looked in the distance of bodies to quell rising emotions. “My resignation as your commander.” She gestured toward Nate him with a raised arm. “Lieutenant Howe is my replacement.”

Silence echoed her declaration. Shocked faces and shifting eyes preceded erupting whispers. Distraught Wardens voices rose, speaking their confusion, disputing the reason for this change and its definite association to the disruption they experienced. But no one approached her. Sorrowful glances joined those of distrust looking at Caoilainn like an outcast or traitor. Her sadness sank deeper, the gaping hole of incompleteness overpowered her thoughts.

“We should go, my love,” Alistair mumbled, empathetic for his wife’s grief. But he knew this was not the time or place to discuss their reactions. With the cure confirmed, her mourning the loss of the bond would not occur here.

Caoilainn gave an absent-minded nod. And with Alistair’s guidance, she turned and walked from the camp burdened by unease. _What have I done?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are much appreciated! I love to hear thoughts about the fic, positive or negative, big or small. Thanks so much for reading. I'd also like to give thanks to my betas [TurboNerd](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TurboNerd) and [Eravalefantasy.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Eravalefantasy) Check out their work! ^.^


	14. Shallows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The armies prepare to return to Ferelden. Caoilainn and Alistair discuss the aftermath of Caoilainn's resignation. Isenam brings concerns to the new Warden Commander.

_9:31 Dragon_

_“It still bothers you.” A curious Caoilainn stated to Alistair in their tent late one night. The crackling campfire outside gave light as the two laid together. Heads supported on hands propped by elbows, they faced each other. Alistair’s brow cocked at her vagueness and he smiled, waiting for her to clarify.  Lips scrunched at his humor with her ambiguous announcement and sighed. This version of Caoilainn no one else saw: sweet, kind, compassionate, exclusive to their private interactions and unlike the stern leader the rest of their group experienced. Her voice softened, and she specified, “that Maric gave you up and Eamon sent you away because of Isolde. Doesn’t it?”_

_“Oh, that? Bother me?” Alistair snorted and waved his hand away, brushing off the proposition with his gesture. “Of course not. I’m long past it. Doesn’t bother me one bit. Why would I let it? It’s not worth getting sad over. It’s not like I moved from one place to another against my will through my youth.”_

_Caoilainn giggled and stopped his rant, “yes, it is.” Brows wrinkled in empathy, inviting him to be honest. Her palm met his, applying even pressure and calling his attention. He knew her curiosity helped her avoid unpleasant memories. “Are you sure it doesn’t get to you?”_

_Blue eyes saw right through his facade. “Woman,” he grinned and exhaled as he shook his head. “You do things to me and you know it. All right.” In his admittance, his brows creased, and he closed his eyes. “Maybe a little, if I look deep enough.” One eye opened, inquiring if his answer satisfied her question._

_Caoilainn shook her head. White teeth showed as full lips stretched, her smile stirred his insides. The sight warmed his heart, complementing the buzz of the Grey Warden bond. Alistair opened his other eye._

_“Yes. It gets to me,” he frowned through his confession. His gaze traveled from Caoilainn to the tent wall behind her. “A lot. I try to rationalize it but it feels like I’m making excuses for everyone else.”_

_“There’s no excuse for what happened to you,” she cooed and her fingers latticed his. The motion drew his eyes back to her. “No boy deserves that.” She moved her hand and brushed his cheek, her fingers pressed along his jaw. “You know that, right?”_

_Alistair’s sinuses stung summoning tears, and he inhaled. He scrunched his lips and blinked. The tenderness she gave in her message, unconditional love rang through each word. It made him sad- a happy sadness that lessened the dull pain of years of bottled resentment._

* * *

 

The Queen remained quiet as they walked. Removed, despondent, she kept her eyes down and her crying silent. Empathetic weight dropped in Alistair’s chest with each step they took. He wanted to help but knew no words could mend the wound of the interaction. Wardens’ looks of panicked doubt and distrust seared into his mind. Beneath the empathy, he realized a debilitating fear. Grief had been her reason for leaving the palace. She hadn’t known how to talk to him about her pain, and he hadn’t known how to help.

None had taught him. Alistair’s pain from loss, abandonment, and neglect ignored for some greater cause his entire life. But Caoilainn had helped. She called on him to open up, helping him vocalize his hurt and anger about the events of his childhood. He hadn’t reciprocated when she needed it in return. _I’m not letting that happen again,_ Alistair reflected in determination to take the opportunity he had now.

Alistair took her hand and continued their walk into Skyhold, past the tavern, and into the main hall. She made a small noise, her head turned toward the hallway for their room as he kept walking. He didn’t respond, instead directing her to the garden where they came from that morning. Fireflies floated through the tranquil space, fluttering blinks as dusk fell.

A stone bench tucked in a quiet corner of the garden, he ushered her to sit. Shoulders slouched, eyes swollen and red from tears, she sealed her lips in a frown and gazed at him. Alistair read the helpless disappointment in her eyes, questioning his motive for changing their route with defeated interest.

“My love,” Alistair knelt before her to match Caoilainn’s eye level. He pressed her hands between his, resting in her lap. “I didn’t know how to help you before you ran away.” Caoilainn lowered her head to break eye contact, and Alistair directed her gaze back with a gentle forefinger to her chin. “Stay with me, my Queen. And I’m not sure I know what to say now, but we’ll get through this.”

Another wave of tears filled Caoilainn’s eyes. _I don’t deserve this._ The message replayed, over and over regarding Alistair’s affection. She dipped her head, leaning forward. Grateful the garden offered seclusion. The utter powerlessness over her situation and reaction something she’d rather others not witness. Without looking at him, she murmured, “I didn’t think it would hurt this much.”

At a loss for words, Alistair sat beside her. His hands rested on the bench beside him and he stared at the ground in the same direction as Caoilainn. Considering his options, what to say if anything, how to help her through this pain. “I did. Caoilainn, I am… was a Warden too, remember. I can relate to what you're feeling. It hurt to separate from the order.” He mulled over his statement, considering how to relate this back to her. “I imagine what you’re going through is even greater. No one deserves that pain.”

“But what if I do?” The sudden lift of her head to his, the intense stare, shiny from soft sobs startled him. “What if this is punishment from the Maker?” Brows lifted, pleading. “For what I’ve done to you, Alistair. Our marriage.”

 _Oh. This is unexpected._ His response delayed from surprise. Caoilainn had always prayed to Andraste and the Maker, but her pragmatism often distorted religious doctrine.

The fireflies bellies flickered in the growing darkness. Crickets chirping accentuated stillness. The silence loomed over Caoilainn, waiting for Alistair’s reply. _He agrees._ Her conclusion arose from anxiety and shame, and sparked the urge to flee, to escape his love given so selflessly. _He will always hold this over me._ Ego tarnished by her crimes against their marriage lent to dread. Though he had yet to give evidence of her fear, she imagined every argument would invite another chance for passive reminders of her guilt. And now she had nowhere to run. Abandonment of the Wardens robbed her of sanctum, freedom from the disgrace she wrought upon herself left wanting.

Alistair observed Caoilainn’s internal isolation; downcast eyes and a deepening frown, her habit of harboring anxious thoughts led her astray time and time again. Despite his unclear feelings about the topic she addressed, he called her from dissociation with a soft hum as he took her hand. “You do have a point,” he made nonchalant shrug; she closed her eyes. “Or maybe, this a natural reaction to having an unnatural element like the taint removed from your blood and your recompense for what you did is between you and me.” A leg swung over the bench, he spoke to her directly. “You were close to them and the bond, for a long time. We knew it would be difficult.”

Chin down, she glanced his direction from under long lashes. “Can I be honest?”

“That’s still part of our agreement,” he grinned, inviting her to continue.

“I don't know if I did the right thing. The pain on their faces…” She trailed off, recalling the looks of her Wardens. “I’m certain our cure affected the bond. I abandoned them.”

 _You abandoned me for years._ The resentful thought came and went. He put the thought aside. “We had no way of knowing this would happen. No one’s ever done this before.”

“Actually,” she lifted an eyebrow, then swung her leg over the bench to mirror his. “I've heard it's happened before. By word of mouth. Just once, but I couldn't find a name.” Caoilainn shook her head, sighing. “... It doesn't matter. It worked and we’re cured.” An optimistic smile pulled soft lips, considering the potential of this new horizon.  

Hope prevailed through sadness, Caoilainn’s meager grin lifted Alistair’s heart. “And the order will continue to rebuild. It's what you've taught them.”

She released a large exhale. “I hope so,” she followed the murmur with a fear, “I hope Nate isn’t above asking for your help.”

Cringing at the name, Alistair frowned. “Howe forgets I was a Warden before all of you.” Denied anger held at the man dampened the pleasant moment. Eager to lighten the mood, he reflected on an amusing memory. “You know, I imagined he made that elf girl his Lieutenant when I thought I lost you. The girl who called me an arsehole before the battle. It was horrible.”

Caoilainn chuckled, turning her head as she rose from the bench. “He’s stubborn, but he’s not an idiot.” She grabbed Alistair’s hand, having noticed Alistair’s discomfort talking about the subject of Nathaniel Howe. “Let’s not talk about him anymore.”

Alistair hummed agreement and stood to join her. Irritation around the subject of Nathaniel Howe grew with her suggestion, but he was grateful for the option. “Have you considered when we’ll leave for Ferelden?”

Lit braziers brightened darkness. The royal couple discussed their departure, determining they had already overstayed their welcome at Skyhold. Lacking a reason to stay longer, they decided together to depart in two days, giving the Ferelden and Highever armies enough notice. Upon leaving the garden they sent for advisors, shared their plans, and returned to their room.

* * *

 

The upheaval of the Warden encampment settled into the evening. Encircled by soldiers saluting their new Warden Commander, an exhausted Nathaniel clambered to give final orders and bring the day to an end. Wandering thoughts of resting in his new bed, the cot of the Warden Commander’s tent, with the Huntress tugged the back of his mind.

But first, Nathaniel met with his Lieutenants to give directions for the next morning. Nervous but determined, Nate stood on one side of the table in the Commander’s tent, the Lieutenants stood at the other. Summoning over a decade of experience serving the Wardens, he imitated what he had witnessed of previous commanders.

Hands clasped behind his back, Nathaniel nodded to Isenam. “Senior Warden Vhirnen has been appointed as Lieutenant.” Nods reciprocated from the line of Lieutenants and a few sideways glances made their way to Isenam. Certain they suspected Isenam and Nathaniel’s prior knowledge of Caoilainn’s resignation, Nathaniel brought up his next item. “Our help is no longer needed by the Inquisition,” he disclosed information he might not have known if not for Hale. Caoilainn may not have thought to tell him otherwise before she separated her ties with the order in the most permanent way fathomable. “We will pack at dawn and begin our trek back to Vigil’s Keep.”

A few ‘ _Yes, Commanders,’_ followed his directions. One lieutenant, a mage, lit a candle in its holder on the table. The waning daylight fell to dusk around the encampment. Plans laid for their trip, including rest sites and meals, the Lieutenants agreed to the marching orders and dispersed for the evening; excluding Isenam, who stayed behind across from the Commander’s table. A few years younger than Nate, the lean elven man served as a scout under Nathaniel soon after the Wardens’ encounter with the Architect. Isenam became a trusted colleague whose commitment to the order matched Nathaniel’s. The elf’s blond hair pulled back in a ponytail emphasized the severity of his frown.

“What do you need?” Nathaniel inquired, brows wrinkled in puzzled annoyance. Pressures of responsibility as Warden Commander limited his patience to guess what kept Isenam after the meeting.

“Did you know Warden Commander Cousland would step down?” Skipping pleasantries and hindrances to their discussion, Isenam brought his concern to the forefront. Regarding professional matters, he knew Nathaniel would tolerate his forwardness.

“Yes,” Nate answered, uninterested in lying and unmotivated to divulge more than necessary. “Is that all?”

Weight shifted on his feet, Isenam gathered composure before speaking further. His hands remained behind his back, posture held for professionalism. “I have a concern about a personal matter of yours, Warden Commander, if I may share.”

Eyes squinted, scanning the shadowed outline of the scout before him with curiosity. A friend of sorts, Isenam’s guidance had always been valued by Nathaniel though it had never regarded personal matters in the past. “I suppose. What is it?”

“Your relationship with the Lavellan girl. I’d recommend you end it. It’s unwise for a Commander to bed a Junior Warden.” Isenam’s straightforwardness overcame Nate’s equanimity.

The Warden Commander coughed mid-breath, fist rising to mouth as he cleared his throat and caught air. “Oh,” he paused, breathing, looking away from Isenam’s all to knowing eyes watching Nate’s coughing fit with disinterest. “Is it that obvious?” Unwilling to sacrifice integrity, Nathaniel replied with a concern. _He’s right. It’s also unwise for the Warden Commander to bed a Lieutenant._ His resentment of Caoilainn’s flexibility with rules applying only to herself.

“The other scouts have figured it out,” the elf replied. “But it would be best to stop before the whole army knows.”

Nathaniel pondered the information, comforted by Hale’s confidence of their secret and unsurprised the scouting team discovered the truth. But even as Warden Commander, he deserved privacy from others’ prying eyes. _Caoilainn did it._ “It's no one's business but mine and Hale’s.”

Isenam’s head shook slowly. “You set precedent as Commander. You did as Lieutenant and now that’s tenfold.” Lips tight, almost an apology for the news he delivered, Isenam watched warily for Nathaniel’s reaction.

 _Damn it._ The undeniable truth of Isenam’s statements stung. “Thank you, Lieutenant. I will keep that in mind.” Nathaniel's dismissal of Isenam from the Warden Commander's tent followed the noncommittal answer.

Alone, Nathaniel gathered his thoughts. Night had fallen, he finished lighting the candles inside. _Warden Commander._ Slow acceptance of his new title crept in as he gazed around the tent; it stood at least four times the size of his previous quarters. _She must have sent someone to gather her things._ No sign of the former Commander remained. From her trunk of belongings to her bed sheets, all that remained belonged to the acting Commander of the Grey. A cot and a table covered in maps and letters held with weights to keep from moving. He sent for some Junior Wardens to grab his things from his tent.

Candles flickered in votive holders, brightening the dusky evening setting to night. With a gruff sigh, Nate dragged his feet to remove his boots, grateful for the hide rug that spread across the ground, preventing his socks from becoming damp from icy grass. More shadows formed from the increase in candlelight and projected along a larger canvas of the wall; space provoked passive reminders of his new responsibilities.

The Junior Wardens delivered his things a moment later. His trunk took up the space Caoilainn’s had previously. He sighed when he realized his linens only covered half the space of the cot and made a mental note to locate new bedclothes somewhere in the encampment before they set up camp the following evening.

Knees bent, he sat on the bed. Sluggish movements removed his gambeson, staring at the ground ahead of him. _What will I say to Hale?_ The question of his impasse had a moment to linger, resonating with his discontent.

“Wanna celebrate?” Hale chirped from just inside the doorway, having snuck in undetected. “I picked some liquor off… well, don’t matter where I got it.” A small grin pulled red lips.

 _She wears make-up._ In the argent candlelight, Nate realized the rouge tint to her smirk, a characteristic of Hale that Nate seemed to overlook in the months he knew her. Matted color had found its way to his clothes, lips, sheets and shaft and he had never noticed the unusual fact of the Huntress. He recalled mornings of waking to the soft, pink skin of the lovely creature's parted lips touching his chest as she laid on him and noticed the contrast to the stark color he saw now. Like the kohl shadow to her eyes defining the prominent green of her irises, usually removed by sweat in their evening activities, leaving circles under her eyes that she cleaned when she woke.

“Not tonight.” An absent-minded mumble replied, the weight of dread on his chest growing. “Huntress, I’m not-”

She sidled to him, straddling his knees with straight legs. Long fingers, rough from her drawstring framed an ear as her head lowered to the other. Breathy words poured, tickling his ear. “I wanna welcome the new Commander right.”

Nathaniel leaned his head away from Hale and stood. Disgruntled and dismayed, he shook his head. “No, Hale.” He prepared to speak words he knew would hurt them both. “We can’t keep seeing each other like this.”

The impact of his declaration landed, and she stepped back. Confused, irritated, Hale’s face twisted with disappointment. “But why?” The simple question prefaced the dramatic expansion of her chest with an inhale; critical eyes watched him as she waited for a response.

“Because I’m Warden Commander. We won’t be able to hide this anymore.” He kept his voice trained and low, balanced even though his heart wrenched.

“Fuck what anyone thinks!” She barked. Unfiltered words joined pooling angry tears. Frantic and fearful pain swept across Hale, her heart raced and her body grew hot. “Since when do you care?”

 _I don’t._ Experience built practicality and often opposed prudence. But here, this new role required judiciousness; standards he set and modeled as the Warden Commander. “I have to care now.”

“Bollocks! Like shite you do,” she cried out. The uncomfortable sensation isolated at her heart, driving through like a needle. Her voice broke with the harshness of her words, resounding from distress “The bloody Bitch Queen Commander did whatever shite she wanted and you can do the same.”

Nate’s nostrils hissed on the exhale, unapproving of Hale insulting Caoilainn and reasoning he couldn’t refute. “I’m not Caoilainn…. Hale, I’m old enough to be your father.” He voiced insecurity; Nathaniel’s discomfort around this dynamic never settled in their time together.

“You know I don’t care 'bout that. Nate, please…,” she whined, crying as a few hot tears slid down her cheeks.

The urge to wipe away her sadness pulled him, but he resisted. _It will only make this worse._ If the Huntress needed contact, she had other options, and he reminded her. His reluctant reply offered meager condolence. “You’ll be fine, Huntress. You still have Damia.” He blinked, holding his eyes closed for a long second, cooling them from teary burning.

“But Nate… I don't… I don't love Damia." Resisting the pang of hopelessness, Hale’s distraught pout puffed full lips. Elbow bent, she wiped an eye with the blade edge of her drawing hand before pushing tears away from the other cheek. Her hand wrapped around her neck. “I sodding love you.”

 _I know._ “Don’t. That will only make this harder.” _For both of us._ Gulping remorse, swallowing the innate wrongness of his next declaration, Nate continued, “I don't feel the same.” _Liar._

“You… I can’t… yer fucking sick, mate.” She gave a wry laugh; lip curling with disgust as her face burned with embarrassment. Ire replaced sorrow; Hale’s inner fears of Nathaniel's interest in her spit like acid. “Guess you got yer revenge, huh? She made you Commander and you don’t need me anymore, innit? Noble son of a bitch-”

“Stop!” He snapped the order and took a deep breath. Pride hurt by her shallow insults, Nate indulged his defensiveness. “I warned you, Hale. I said I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Well, you did!” She blurted with frustration and glared at the tent wall. The words fell on their own in spite of her humiliation, and her arms crossed over her chest. Makeup smeared around her eyes; her hair tucked behind her ear.

“Huntress…,” _I love you._ But he couldn’t muster the reply. He watched her body quiver, tears dropping in steady lines. Silent, lip protruding, the lovely creature didn’t make eye contact as he spoke. “I think you should leave.” _This hurts me too._

Hale’s head shook, admitting defeat, knowing his logic would negate all her appeals. The Huntress’s hurt and anger boiled but she didn’t reply, glowering instead. After another breath in, she growled and left Nathaniel’s quarters; he watched, chest pounding with regret each second she was gone.

Rushed and lengthy steps took her back to the scout encampment. She spoke to no one as she entered her tent. Scouts’ questioning glances passed from one another as they heard Hale rummaging. She emerged a few minutes later with a pack of belongings. Hair disheveled and cheeks stained with tears, she looked at the friends sitting around the campfire, relaxing under the starry night sky before their march the next day. The puzzled looks contributed more to the ache of her heart.

“Hale, what-” Damia asked, brow cocked with confusion.

“I’m staying here,” she whimpered, not waiting for a reply as brisk steps took her toward Skyhold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to know what you think. :'( *wails*


	15. Reprieve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hale visits Alanna and meets some other members of the Inquisition. The Wardens leave Skyhold.

Damia followed Hale when the huntress announced she would stay at Skyhold. Aware of the classic signs of heartbreak in Hale’s actions, Damia begged her to forget about Nathaniel. She reminded the young Warden of their pledge to each other: ‘ _Grey Wardens for life,’_ and the oath Hale gave at her Joining. But the huntress kept on her path to Skyhold. Jaw clenched, she had refused to confirm Nathaniel as the cause of her anguish.

Hale jogged across the drawbridge into the stronghold. Angry with herself for falling trap to feelings she didn’t understand, furious with Nathaniel for dismissing her and their time together as meaningless. _Whatever it was._ An aching hollow formed in the wake of his rejection, her loving confession declined with no fulfilling explanation. ‘ _I don’t feel the same.’_

The Skyhold courtyard felt foreign. She had been there twice before; once prior to the battle to visit her cousin and again when they returned. Recalling the steps she took to reach Alanna, Hale made her way to the War Room. Out of place, uncomfortable, she tiptoed through the great hall and took the second door on the left. Following the hallway into an office. A council member, _the one who writes everything,_ greeted her with a gentle voice.

“It is so nice to see the Inquisitor’s cousin. It's Hale, yes?” Josephine inquired from her desk, standing and walking around to greet the young Warden. She put out her hand in an amicable greeting; Hale stared at Josephine’s extended palm with a cocked brow.

“Yeah,” cheeks still blanched and eyes red from crying, she watched the woman with skepticism. “Need to talk to Alanna.”

“Of course,” the Inquisition ambassador’s raised arm abandoned the attempted handshake and gestured to the door Hale came through. She guided Hale back out the way she came. “At this hour she’s in her room.”

Hale followed Josephine back into the main hall toward Alanna’s room. Her eyes explored the levels of the building she walked, noticing the scaffolding leading up to higher floors. Activity echoed through the stone walkway from guests in the hall, all characteristics of Skyhold she hadn't noticed prior. Josephine traveled to a door at the end of the hallway and knocked. A ‘ _come in’_ responded and Josephine ushered Hale through the entryway. The ambassador did not follow and instead returned to her office, bidding Hale farewell before she left.

Tentative steps took Hale up the stairway, curious, confused. Despite the darkness, flickering light gave guidance. The stairwell seemed incomplete, walls exposed beams and gaping holes. It surprised Hale, assuming one with the title of _Inquisitor_ would be entitled to more niceties.

But as she neared the top of the stairs, she scanned the bedroom. _Fancy._ And the view of stars twinkling over mountains outside tall windows made her jaw drop. Moonlight shone through the panes into the quarters.

“Hale?” Alanna’s puzzled voice interrupted Hale’s reverie. The Inquisitor sat at her desk in a corner of the room, a lit lantern brightening her workspace. “What are you doing here?”

Reluctant, the huntress’s eyes traveled to the floor in front of her. Ashamed, prepared for her cousin’s lecturing she announced her intention, mumbling, “thought I’d stay here… left the Wardens.” Her pack dropped to the floor; her bow tapping the hide of her drum as it fell.

“Oh, Hale.” Alanna stood and walked to her cousin. Sympathetic eyes searched for answers; Alanna’s hands found Hale’s. Looking up to her taller relative, she inquired, “what happened, _asa'var'lin_ ? _A_ _ssan’panelan nuem ma, vin?_ ” _(The archer hurt you, didn’t he?)_

What had been a temporary reprieve from Hale’s rushing tears ended as Alanna asked questions. Hale’s face scrunched, muscles expressing the sting of memories she had to reflect. The tumultuous history of the women set aside in Hale’s need of support as she admitted her hardship. Her neck craned to look at the ceiling as she recapped her misery. “He fucking ended it! The Queen made him Warden Commander and then he said… he said we had to end it.” She walked away from Alanna, pacing with inner debate to share more information. Halting, she faced the Inquisitor. “I told him… I said I fucking _loved_ him, Alanna.”

The news of Nathaniel’s elevation to Commander came as a surprise. But rather than inquire, Alanna decided to gather information from Leliana about the Queen’s resignation and her first Lieutenant’s promotion the next morning.

“ _Ara’fenor,” (my dear)_ Alanna cooed and inched toward her bed, sitting on the edge as she viewed her cousin. She patted a spot next to her for Hale to sit; the huntress remained standing. “It’s safer for you here anyway. _Ar eolasa din gonathe ma, Hale. Ma nadas’tel sul'ema mar’vhenan esh'ala din’elana emathe ra.” (I knew he wasn’t worthy of you, Hale. You mustn’t give your heart to those who cannot hold it.)_

Images of Nathaniel rose to her mind. Grey eyes, concerned with her well-being when he saw her injured, hurt physically and emotionally; when she screamed into the mountains and he stood beside her. It only magnified her crestfallen confusion. Hale stood in angry daydreams, troubled by their inconsistencies.

“I’m relieved you decided to stay, _asa'var'lin_ ”( _cousin_ ). The Inquisitor continued, calling the huntress from her wandering mind. _“Sael’rajelan harel em unshivas ama ma eth o’nuem._ _Banalla Rasdalelanis o’Radalas ea’harellanis.”_ _(The first to the Commander deceived me when he pledged to keep you safe from harm. The Grey Wardens [lit. Darkspawn Killers] of Ferelden are liars.)_

Turbulent feelings preoccupied with heartbreak, Hale’s willingness to reproach Alanna’s use of elvhen vanished. Though the huntress gave a blank nod, Alanna’s accusations hurt. A Warden herself through blood, regardless of her distance from the order, the insults attacked those with whom she bled in battle, drank and laughed with in camp. Fewer she bedded, intimacy fed appetite for camaraderie- or more, as with Nathaniel. She wondered what it would feel like to be without them. Too dejected and stubborn to face Nathaniel after being shunned, Hale refused to consider returning to the Warden encampment.

Now that she connected to the Warden bond, she felt her distance from the larger force. The taint pulled her to them even though she was still a young Warden. She was certain it would be difficult the next morning when they left. When Nate left. But she sensed a soft hum of the Orlesian troop saved from the corruption of Corypheus and survived the Arbor Wilds battle. Fewer in number, the same blood ran through them as with her.

Hale didn’t respond; unwilling to agree with Alanna, but unable to form an argument, she turned to look out the window.

“You can sleep in my bed tonight.” The Inquisitor used the common language, in case Hale’s silence resulted from the native tongue. Her hand raised to the oversized sleeping place. “Josephine will find another room for you tomorrow. You can stay here if you want, I’m going to finish work before sleeping. Or there’s a tavern downstairs if you’d rather.”

“Yeah,” Hale gave a quick reply. “Been to the tavern. A drink’ll be good.” She had a bottle of stolen liquor from the Herald’s Rest in her pack, but time away from Alanna’s judgment of the Wardens appealed to Hale.

“Tell the barkeep you’re my cousin and have fun, Hale. Be safe. And please be quiet when you come in.” Alanna pushed off the bed and walked back to her desk. “I have meetings with Leliana and Morrigan tomorrow morning.”

Hale’s eyes widened, surprised by the ease Alanna permitted her to leave. Years of her cousin’s kind but overbearing demeanor deviated in this busy but easy-going Alanna. With her pack slung over her shoulder, Hale ventured from the Inquisitor’s room to the tavern. Curious, she peered around the large space, examining the stronghold as she walked. Alone, a state Hale once found so familiar now abnormal after being surrounded by fellow Wardens. They had become family where she had none. And tomorrow they would be gone. The fleeting experience of being part of something meaningful would permanently leave her life at daybreak.

A sign hung over the door of the tavern. A crowned woman radiating light and carrying a swathed body. _Fucking Andraste._ Hale rolled her eyes as she pushed her way into the pub. Energetic, lively, the space occupied by warm bodies, some dancing, throwing darts, most sitting in conversation over drinks. The activity in the tavern opposed the silent courtyard she walked from. Wary of the crowded location, she held her pack tighter and walked to the bar. After giving her name and relation to Alanna, she procured a tankard of ale without charge from the dwarven bartender. Hale set off to find a place to sit alone.

Patrons milled, animated with pleasant conversations. Hale observed them, intrigued by the peculiar collection of individuals within the bar. A large qunari headed a table of counterparts of different races. Noise erupted from a game of darts at the other side of the room, the leader appeared to be a rough looking dwarf who also seemed to be winning. Near them, the blond Inquisition Commander sat with a short haired woman, a stern-faced warrior. Hale had noticed the Commander eying her cousin on more than one occasion during Inquisition council meeting both in the War Room and before the Arbor Wilds battle. The second floor of the tavern was filled with patrons she couldn’t identify.

The thud of something dropping behind her preceded a sing-song voice in an accent not unlike her own. “A Dalish bitch tits says what?”

Hale’s head turned to see a tall elven woman stand upright as if she jumped from the upper story. “Fuck off,” Hale shook her head and turned to drink her beer, sipping in dismissal of the blonde intruding her solitude.

“Oh!” The elf chuckled, entertained by Hale’s callous reply. “A grumpy one, is it? Don’t sound elfy-like neither. Tell me, what’s a Warden like you doing in a place like this?”

Brow furrowed,  Hale looked down to see she still wore her Grey Warden armor. In her inward reflection, she had not considered taking it off. The sight of the blue and white, accented with silver studs on the chest and griffons at her shoulders sparked emotion. She blinked the feelings away and stared at the speaker. The blonde elf crossed her arms, standing with a hip leaned against the table.

“Not a Warden anymore,” Hale answered; frowning, her eyes scanned the woman; she appeared to be around the same age as Hale, hair cut uneven in the front. “Do I know you?”

“Dunno. Maybe. Name’s Sera,” the woman announced, shrugging her shoulders before gesturing to herself with a hand to her chest. Sera moved to sit across from Hale and waved her arm for a drink from the bartender. “You,” she pointed, grinning as she met Hale’s gaze again, “look right pissed. Boy troubles? No… better: _girl_ troubles, innit?” She winked.

Baffled by the forwardness of Sera’s interrogation, Hale’s eyes rolled in discomfort with the subject. _Both._ The honest answer withheld for sake of privacy. “Shove off, yeah? Ain’t yer fucking business.”

“Shame,” Sera shrugged again, taking her drink from a barmaid as she passed. “Know some clever ways to have fun in Skyhold. Might help you get your mind off him… or her. Them.” The feet of Sera’s chair scraped against the wood floor and she stood.

The woman took a step away from the table. “Wait,” Hale called. Sera turned to see Hale’s tankard upturned, her throat rippling with each chug of the ale she swallowed. An empty tankard clanked on the table. “Fuckin’ show me.” _Maybe these Inquisition arseholes won’t be so bad._

* * *

 

_“You’re a shite liar.” The huntress grinned, soft steps taking her across the leather rug to him; she climbed onto his cot._

_“I know.” He moved to make room, eager for her to join him. He smiled, appreciative of the smoothness of her lean frame sliding against his bristled skin. “I love you, Hale,” he admitted, eyes searching for hers, hoping she heard before finding the Fade._

_She blinked, looking up to him; her hand caressed his cheek. “I know,” she whispered. Her lips brushed his ear before she made a playful nip at the lobe._

_Rain and flowers, a hint of pine; he closed his eyes and breathed her in. The huntress settled alongside him. Warmth, legs entwined, the rise and fall of her chest in sync with his own. Muscular arms, slender but toned clung to his sinew, craving closeness despite the broken love he offered._

Movement outside his tent woke Nathaniel from his dream. Daylight approached for another day of marching back to Vigil's Keep; grey sky moist, projecting thick fog into the camp. He rose to an empty bed.

* * *

 

“I’m going to watch them leave.” The somber sound of Caoilainn’s voice disrupted Alistair from his sleep. Nearing daylight, the room was dim. Sleepy-eyed, he blinked and gave a heedless nod. “I love you,” she whispered before kissing his forehead.

“I love _you_ ,” he yawned. Smiling, he rolled to one side and dozed back into sleep.

Quiet steps took Caoilainn from the room. She wandered through the near empty Skyhold training yard and climbed the steps to the ramparts. Heavy fog clung to the ground, spreading across the curves of the valleys around the stronghold. Encampment broken, the final stages to the Wardens’ packing near complete. Caoilainn studied them, feeling the return of pensiveness. The army’s distance, too far to discern faces, removed her more, numbing the agony of the sight. But she knew she needed to see it. _For closure. Or punishment. Or both._ Bereavement of this part of herself, already gone but exemplified by the Grey Wardens leaving without her, settled in like weight behind her eyes. Pressure built and overflowed to laden tears. She sniffed her nose and her arms wrapped around her chest, self-soothing in her private mourning as time ticked by. Each moment brought the Wardens closer to leaving.

“Often we must grieve the end of one life to gain another,” a voice rang behind her. Poignant footsteps brought the speaker to Caoilainn’s side.

Her teary gaze held on the Grey Warden army, Caoilainn spoke a soft reply, “I’m sure it will get better. But Morrigan, at the moment it’s painful.”

“‘Tis understandable,” Morrigan’s response resounded Caoilainn’s. The Witch of the Wilds stared into the distance as the Wardens began their trek back to Ferelden. She dipped her head toward the moving team of wayfarers. “But you’ll heal. As will they.”

“Are you sure?” The question confessed insecurity of her own ability to recover from the loss, in addition to the Wardens’. Caoilainn’s gaze returned to the valley. From this distance, the lethargic inching of the body of blue and white echoed her melancholy. But she didn't breathe with them; the animal the Wardens created in their construct did not include her.

“Do you trust Alistair?” Morrigan answered Caoilainn’s question with her own, facing the Queen as they stood on the ramparts.

Crisp air blew the loose ends of their hair. Sounds of morning filled the space between slow statements. Whimsical songs of birds contradicted Morrigan and Caoilainn’s reserved conversation.

Weighing her answer, the Queen stood silent. In the past, her answer would have been a prompt and pointed ‘ _no.’_ But as the question resonated,  Caoilainn tucked her chin as confirmation. “I do.” The utterance was true.

“Then I am sure,” Morrigan gave brief smile, encouraging her friend. A shimmer of the young lady Morrigan met and witnessed fall in love with the bastard prince became prominent. Caoilainn's linen tunic tucked into leather breeches. No longer shrouded by Grey Warden armor, the former Warden Commander's aloof demeanor shed to vulnerability.

“Thank you, Morrigan.” She gave heartfelt gratitude through the low murmur. “To you and Kieran. I owe you for my life. We both do.”

“Twice now,” Morrigan grinned, moving from the wall to leave. “But who's counting? Speaking of Kieran, that boy keeps wandering off and disappearing. I need to look for him. If I don't see you before you and Alistair leave, I wish you safe travels.”

Morrigan gave Caoilainn a small hug before she stepped down the stairway and walked into Skyhold’s great hall. She passed Alistair on the way and they exchanged cordial nods. The King took tired steps up to Caoilainn who faced valley again. The small specks that made the Wardens barely visible.

“You could have woken me,” his voice light, sweet, and absent of judgment. He moved to stand behind her, his arms met the stone ramparts on either side of the Queen; his nose brushed the soft skin of her neck. “I would’ve watched with you.”

“I know you would,” she placed a fair hand over his sun-kissed digits. “I needed to be alone for a little while. I'm glad you’re here, my King.” She sighed, welcoming his affection as a needed respite from the gravity of emotions. “I haven’t heard back from Weisshaupt,” Caoilainn disclosed her insecurity about the Wardens survival without her. Questions of Nathaniel’s success as Warden Commander surfaced. She subdued the urge to share the details with Alistair. _I’m no longer a Warden._

“They have to get the letter before they can read it,” he replied. Arms wrapping around her waist, Alistair embraced his queen from behind. Her body relaxed, her head leaning back to rest on him. “Leliana’s ravens aren't _that_ fast. For now, you can spend _all_ the time you want worrying about what we’ll do when we get back to the palace.”

She turned around to face him, pressed between him and the stone wall. A subtle simper teased at her lips accepting the invitation to join in his humor. “I’ve got a few things in mind.”

“Oh?” Alistair quipped, the jovial rise of his brow engaging with her flirtation. “What might those things be?”

“You’ll find out when we get there.” Grinning, she pointed to his chest but her eyes wandered to his jaw line, soon followed by her palm. “ _After_ you shave.”

“But my Queen,” he smiled, pulling her closer and rubbing the stubbled part of his face to her cheek. “I've decided to grow it out.”

A garbled giggle sounded and Caoilainn pushed him away, escaping the assault of Alistair’s unshaved chin. The playful shove forced him to step back and allowed Caoilainn to return to her view of the walking Wardens. Alistair joined her side this time.

“That means it’ll be a surprise, then?” He referred to her plans for their return to Denerim. “I love surprises.”

With another grin, Caoilainn shook her head. Rolling her eyes, she nudged him with her hip; they stilled to watch her army disappear.

Though it was bittersweet to see the Grey Wardens leave without her, Caoilainn found gratitude. A smaller army, the Wardens would travel quickly, reducing the likelihood of crossing paths with the Ferelden and Highever troops.The gloomy morning lightened, rays of light broke through the overcast sky.  The King and Queen of Ferelden gave polite thanks to the Inquisitor before the end of the day, then returned to their room for their last night in Skyhold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG. Did you ever wonder what would happen if Hale met Sera... because I did. It happened. More to come on that in the next chapter. I'd love to know what you think! Comments are welcome.


	16. Pranks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays!!!
> 
> Sera offers Hale a distraction. 
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Lots of drinking. Blackout drunk. Implied dubious consent. Implied/ referenced child abuse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if you've noticed but AO3 likes to add spaces between the words and punctuation in italics sometimes. I'm not sure why.

Hale’s head throbbed, and she whimpered. Alone and waking up to a queasy pit in her stomach; her insides turned and even with her eyes closed, she felt the room around her spinning. The light burned her eyes when she opened them and she didn’t recognize her location; a modest room with pillows by a windowsill. The location of the sun low in the west revealed she’d slept until late afternoon. She put her hand over her eyes. _How’d I get here?_ Fuzzy pictures of the night before fluttered through her mind.

_“I knew you’d be a fun one!” Sera’s chimed before she chugged her drink, slamming the mug down on the table. She yanked Hale from her seat and ushered her upstairs and through a door on the upper level of the tavern to the outside. “What’s your name?”_

_A hint of annoyance coated Hale’s tone, “Hale. D’you bloody-well feel like telling me what we’re doing?”_

_With a jovial laugh, Sera pushed Hale onto the battlements. “Easy. Pranks. You’re in a sour mood and pranks make people happy. ‘Less you’re the one being pranked then you might not laugh about it right away.”_

_“Pranks?” Flat affect sounded Hale’s disinterest in Sera’s proposition._

_“Yeah, pranks,” Sera slapped Hale on the back. “It’s simple. Just a few surprises her and there to some unexpecting prigs. They won’t know what him ‘em.”_

_“I don’t get it,” Hale’s face contorted in unamused confusion. “Ain’t no loot or coin in pranks. What d’we get out of it?”_

_“A good laugh is all. And a distraction.” Sera’s hand found her hip as she scolded Hale. “Look, you’re the one whinging about your ‘them’ problems. I’m just giving a fun alternative. You want in or not?”_

_Hale looked to the ground._ Alanna ain’t gonna like this. _She nodded. “Right, yeah. I’m in.”_

Slow movements let Hale sit up; the pounding in her head worsened with the tingling of air around her. Noise of talking and music from outside the door vibrated her skull. Another snippet of a memory of the prior night followed.

_“General Tight Arse’s office,” Sera announced as they opened the door. “A real stingy wanker. Thinks everything’s gotta be perfect. This’ll be an easy one for your first prank.”_

_The warmth of her drink made her head light; she slurred her words. “I seen him looking at my cousin.” Silent paces around the room, she examined his office with skepticism._

_“So you’re the Inquisitor’s cousin then?” Sera’s head rose up from under Cullen’s desk, her brow raised with curiosity. “Think Cully-wully’s got it for her. And I think she’s got it back.”_

_Hale turned the maps on Cullen’s desk upside down and moved an inkwell to the opposite side as Sera spoke. With the news about Alanna and Cullen Hale gagged. “Ugh. Gross. Don’t wanna think about that. Alanna’s just telling me some shite,” She stopped and offered her impression of Alanna by producing a tipsy combination of common tongue and elvhen. “You mustn’t give yer vhenan to one who can’t hold it.”_

_One eye closed, Sera’s face scrunched as Hale stammered through her impression. “Well, I don’t think her vhenan is all he’s holding.” A long, snort filled giggled suggested Sera’s entertainment with her own joke._

Alanna’s intended lesson blurred in Hale’s hazy memory; undefined emotional weight rested on Hale’s shoulders but in the lack of clarity, she couldn’t place the reason. Hale looked around the room, steadying her hands on the bench. A pit in her stomach lurched, taunting her with discomfort. She realized she stood in her small clothes. Her binder gone, gambeson missing.

Assuming the tunic on the floor to be hers, she pulled it on and found her leather breeches. Foggy images of sneaking with Sera, passively disrupting the peace of Skyhold by reorganizing belongings, planting unwelcome surprises for victims the next morning- interspersed with rounds of drinks cycled through Hale’s memory, stopping at a specific recollection.

_Light strides carried them down the stairs into the courtyard. Giggling. Sera stopped in thought. “Let’s do a tricky one.” A fluid motion, fast friends formed through juvenile hijinks, Sera grabbed Hale’s hand to pull her toward the great hall. Sera’s fingers, hardened and raised in select spots from drawing a bowstring, caught Hale’s attention._

_“You shoot!” They took a few steps together and Hale stopped, stating her observation while touching the callouses on Sera’s slender hands. “I do too. My fingers stay rough from all the pressure.” Hale put her ring and middle finger against Sera’s digits to prove her point. Long fingers and defined knuckles, soft in some places and rough in others grazed Sera’s opened palm._

_Blushing, the contact sparked Sera’s awkward giggle. “That’s what she said. … All right. Enough of the fingering bits.” She took her hand back and touched the tough patches of her own fingers._

_“Said no lady fucking ever,” Hale snickered at her perversion until her eyes landed on the tavern. “Need more beer before we go at it again.” Unsure if Sera heard the accidental innuendo, Hale locked eyes with the other archer. They doubled over, chuckling before strolling the short distance to the tavern._

_“Oh!” Sera yelled in understanding as they entered the wooden doorway. “I got it! Because… because lady bits!”_

Feet dragging, Hale crossed the room, wincing at blaring afternoon sun shining through large panes; she shielded her eyes. Still patching together the night before, trying to recall how she wound up nearly naked in a room she didn’t recognize. The distant smell of cooking meat and the thought of its corresponding grease appealed to her nauseous insides.

_As they drank multiple pints of ale Sera listed her opinions of key members of the Inquisition, all eligible victims of their antics to come. Ensuing laughter echoed their discussion considering potential pranks and the appropriate insects to use for each target._

_“That one. He writes stories,” Sera pointed to the dwarven man still throwing daggers in the pub. “Varric’s fun. But he’ll get a kick out of it, so it means it takes more to josh him.”_

_The pleasant fuzziness of the effects of alcohol spread through Hale; her movements exaggerated and slow. She scanned the dwarven man’s stature of confidence amidst his taller peers. “Looks like the type who gets along with lots of people.”_

_“He does,” Sera gave an absent shrug before she upturned her tankard. She set the empty mug on the table. “Means he misses lots of people too. Got it, earwigs. Wait, no! Bees! Bees in his... books. Yes!” She slammed her hand on the table. “Frig! I’m fresh out of bees. Hm...That one there,” she pointed to the stern looking, warrior woman. “Cassandra. She’s an uptight prat, but she reads Varric’s books a lot. Let’s put crickets in… The Bull!” She exclaimed as her eyes found the large qunari in the back of the tavern._

_Hale's gaze followed Sera’s; the man still sat at the table in the corner with his comrades. The group appeared more intoxicated than when Hale saw them earlier. “Don’t think that prank’ll go so good.”_

_“Not crickets_ in _the Bull, weirdy,” Sera playfully scoffed as Hale drank the last of her beer. “He’s a good mate. Thinks too much but his Chargers listen. Could wait ‘till he’s sleeping and put lard in his bedsheets. Ew… slippery Bull parts.” She cackled in disgust._

_Hale chuckled at the thought until her eyes blinked slowly, feeling the tiredness caused by a long day of emotion and night of drinking. “I know who I wanna prank.” She leaned over the table to Sera. With no reference for personal space, their foreheads nearly touched. “... Alanna.”_

_“Piss off!” Sera fell back in her chair with laughter, appearing more than amused with the proposal. But she stopped after a moment, centering to see Hale attempting a serious frown. A mischievous grin pulled at the corners of Hale’s lips. “You’re right loony. But I’m in. Everyone's an equal, yeah? But if I get asked tomorrow, I never even met a Hale_ LaElven.”

_The pair left the tavern and stumbled through the courtyard into the great hall. Snickers prompted mutual shushing and incited more laughter from the other, continuing their entire trip to Alanna’s room. But as they opened the door, they grew quiet. Steps became stealthy, they tiptoed up the stairs. The luminescent moon lit the area; showing Alanna under a pile of blankets sleeping alone._

_Sera and Hale peered around the room to decide on their best method of pranking. Silent communication, pointing and hand waves, downward facing thumbs suggested either woman’s disapproval. But as she moved to examine the area around Alanna’s desk, Hale picked up her bow and quiver. The arrows rattled, noise causing the duo to freeze, breath held, waiting to see if Alanna would wake. The Inquisitor rolled in her bed but didn’t rise. Sera and Hale exhaled in relief._

_Resuming her perusal of the desk, Hale spotted the inkwell. An idea came to mind, and she waved at Sera to gain her attention._

_A voice broke the silence, “Hale? What are you doing?” Sitting up in bed, Alanna looked at Hale; Sera stood at the other end of the room, out of the Inquisitor’s line of sight._

_“Run!” Sera whispered with a cackle as she sped across the room and the down the stairs. Heart pounding, Hale followed, giggling in fright as her legs carried her back into the great hall. She followed Sera, unsure of their destination, into the tavern and up the stairs. Sera opened the door to a small nook, leaning against the back and yanking Hale around the other side as she entered. Body weight slammed the door and caused Hale to crash into Sera. Hands landing on Sera’s shoulders, Hale braced herself for impact. Fear immediately subsided, loud laughing released from both women. Hale didn’t flinch at the natural movement of Sera’s hands around Hale’s lower back. But both slowed their laughter._

_Grey eyes met green. The smoky stare of Hale's new counterpart stirred a familiar drive. Bodies pressing against the door, Hale noticed the tempting fullness of Sera’s lips in such a close proximity. The huntress closed the breath of space in an instant. Hale’s fingers tangled in the messy blonde hair of the other archer, pulling her in. A hurried hum and Hale’s waiting mouth found Sera’s; she reciprocated the kiss with a grunt. Her stretched digits slid down the small of Hale’s back, squeezing the plump curve over the muscle of Hale’s ass with open palms. Rushed, Sera took Hale’s swollen lower lip between her teeth and nibbled before Hale’s tongue slid against Sera’s._

_But in unison they stopped and Hale pulled away._

_“Nope. No.” Sera mumbled through an uncomfortable giggle._

_“Yeah, no. “ Hale agreed, her hand meeting her forehead. A confused look spread across her face. “That was like… kissing myself.”_

_“Right. Not for me.” Pushing off the door, Sera took two large steps to the bench covered in pillows. “Sorry Foxy, I’m not my type.”_

_“Friends?” Hale joined Sera on the bench._

_“Yeah, friends.” Sera stretched her legs and yawned._

_Relating Sera's tiredness to what Hale felt in her own body, Hale jumped up, attempting to spark a second wind of energy. “No yawning!” She exclaimed as she reached into her pack and grabbed the bottle she stole from earlier. “I’s gonna save this for… something. But let’s finish it and shoot things.”_

_Sera agreed, and the pair took their bows and quivers to the rooftop by Sera’s room. The stillness of approaching dawn amplified the sounds of their movement. Between sips of liquor, they shot arrows at the targets in the courtyard and continued their conversation._

_Blurred eyesight tried to focus and Hale loosed an arrow. It missed its target, and she swayed. “So what's yer type then?”_

_Sera drank directly from the bottle and passed it to Hale. “Bigger.” After a few tries, she pulled an arrow out of her quiver. “Mmm. Qunari. Those Tammasarwhats, though.” She made a low giggle. “Because woof.” Glassy eyes gazed in the distance and after a delay, she looked to Hale. “You?”_

_Hale took a large sip of liquor. “Archers.” She tried to wink at Sera, but held her eye closed longer than intended. “But humans. Older ones… way older.” She hiccupped and handed the near empty liquor bottle back._

_Another extended, rumbling giggle flowed from Sera. “Right. Daddy issues. Funny, innit? So… who holds_ your _vhenan then?” She finished the bottle as Hale made one more attempt at shooting the target; the arrow fell to her feet before she could release it._

_“No one,” Hale gave a prompt response and picked up her fallen arrow, sticking it back in the quiver. “Not anymore.”_

_After finishing the bottle of liquor, Sera chuckled. “Lying shit. It’s all right, I know what’ll make it better.” Careful movements, long pauses brought Sera back into her room, she pulled Hale in after her. “You need more beer… and ice cream… and cookies.”_

_Hale gave a sad smile and nodded, agreeing with the strange combination of comfort foods as she stepped into Sera’s room. But a more entertaining thought entered Hale’s mind, the twinkle in her eyes returned and her grin suggested mischief. “You know… friends can still roll around.”_

Hale’s palms found her eyes, and she made a loud groan; unable to recall anything beyond that point, she made assumptions based on the state in which she woke. The recalled conversation explained the emotional weight on her shoulders. _Nate._ Anger swirled with sorrow, the singe of heartbreak taunting her nausea and magnified by a pull to something no longer present, long gone from Skyhold. _The bond._ She recognized the withdrawal from her native group of Wardens with no need for visual confirmation. They would return _home_ to Vigil’s Keep without her.

The emptiness hurt, pain multiplied by Nate’s inclusion in the loss. Abound with regret and furious with her own immaturity, tears welled, hurting her eyes; she rubbed her fists against her lashes to dispel the discomfort. Her headache intensified the unpleasantness of crying. Defeated, a frustrated growl escaped the huntress; her hands came down, pushing off the bench to stand. Hale stormed off to find food.

* * *

 

_9:12 Dragon- Vigil’s Keep_

_“Boy, you’re more stupid than your mother. Can you do nothing right?”_

_Nathaniel learned to remain quiet when his father asked that question. Any attempt Nate made to defend himself ended in punishment, often with pain and always without dinner._

_Rendon’s eyes widened, a wordless way to rush Nathaniel into obeying an unspoken order. Nate realized the cue and connected it to the appropriate demand; he brought his father his coat. “Sorry, sir,” Nate murmured, handing it over._

_“Remember, Nathaniel, boys who flounder their responsibilities do not grow into powerful men. Don’t mumble and do not waste my time.” Rendon donned his coat and left the large door of the main building of Vigil’s Keep._

* * *

 

Frosty mountain peaks beckoned the army through craggy passes, allowing the Grey Wardens to reach the foothills near Orzammar before nightfall. By foot they moved, weaving through the space with ease. The Wardens traveled quickly on their own; the restrictions imposed by surrounding armies no longer present as when they joined the Inquisition.

Despite Nate’s acceptance of his father’s treachery and manipulation, crimes against the Couslands and Ferelden as a whole, the lessons Rendon taught still rang through Nathaniel’s mind; particularly when feelings of inadequacy arose as they had been since Hale left his tent the previous night. That morning when they packed, the scouts had run to him informing of Hale’s departure and urging him to do something.

_“Commander Howe!” Damia called to Nathaniel; another Warden aided him in collapsing the Commander’s tent. “Warden Commander! It’s Hale. She’s gone. She went to Skyhold last night and hasn’t come back.”_

_The news stung his eyes but his arms reached above him, taking down the pavilion sides. Out of Damia's sight, he took a breath and blinked before looking to her. “It’s her choice to stay.”_

_“Commander, please, you need to go get her. Hale wouldn't listen to me.” Damia pleaded, imploring him to take action. And he wanted to. The deep-seated and desperate inclination had gnawed at him since he woke from his dream, but the distant voice of his father’s shame and nagging won over._ Can you do nothing right?

_“We know she’ll listen to you,” Gunnar offered, his brows wrinkling with apprehension. Lisbeth, Ashiwyn, and Saeris nodded beside him._

_“Wardens,” Nathaniel replied, the sharpness of his tone resounding his dissatisfaction. “I may be new to this position, but the last time I checked, the Commander gives the orders, and not the other way around.”_

Upset with his response, the scouting group had stormed off and insisted on giving Nathaniel subtle cold shoulders for the rest of the day. They grew silent whenever he neared and followed his orders with glares and curt replies of _‘yes, Commander.’_

Other Grey Wardens complained about the disruption in the bond the previous day. The vacillation still reverberated for the army. Unaccustomed to changes in a facet of their union so innately consistent wrought undefinable fear. Nathaniel answered superstitious inquiries with vague responses, assuring his certainty of a letter from Weisshaupt when they returned to the Keep.

Weighed down by pressure, overwhelmed with new responsibility, and racked by an undeniable longing for the Huntress, Nate isolated from the Wardens. The desire to be alone with his thoughts, to escape the incessant questions from what was now _his_ army motivated him until they stopped for the night. After they set camp Nathaniel went to bed without eating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to know what you think of this chapter/ fic so far/ characters, etc. Comments are much appreciated. < 3


	17. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caoilainn and Alistair return to Denerim. (Some mildly NSFW at the end)

Ferelden forces woke to another foggy morning summoning the armies to march. Dreary weather persisted and wet grass promised muddy boots on their way back to Highever and Denerim. Cold wind blew from the northeast carrying salty notes from the Waking Sea. They followed the Wardens’ path from the day prior.

Days dragged, rocky terrain gave way to the thicker forest around Orzammar. As ordered, the troops moved aside, allowing room for any passing dwarven caravans. The Imperial Highway made for a welcomed sight to the Ferelden soldiers and the King and Queen.

Uneventful days stretched on, identical camps made in the Ferelden countryside night after night as they traveled through the brisk Coastlands to Denerim offered little change. At a halfway point on the North Road, the Highever fleet split from the royal army and continued further north to Castle Cousland. Caoilainn gave a letter for her brother to their general, thanking Fergus and his men for their time.

The King and Queen rode separate horses side by side; pleasant conversation interrupted by short-lived tiffs, caused by shorter-lived tempers, resulting from the stressors of travel. The couple spent chilly Ferelden nights together in the King’s tent.

* * *

_A few nights from Denerim, the King and Queen slept on a sizable cot in the royal tent. It had been a quiet day of travel with clear weather and no signs of bandits. A blanket of stars covered the Coastlands, distant clouds hinting at morning rainfall._

_Caoilainn sat up, gasping; she reached for her throat, clutching for air._

_The large heap of blanket and body next to her stirred and mumbled. “Nightmare?” Alistair’s question voiced from habit, unsurprised with his wife’s restless state. But a moment passed, she didn’t respond, and he sat up with her. “It’s wasn’t the Calling,” he stated, his tone lingering with uncertainty, “was it?”_

_Shaking her head, Caoilainn laid back down. Alistair on his side extended an arm over her torso. “No.” She rolled on her side to face him and his hand slid to the curve of her hip. Though she couldn’t see his face through the shadows, she observed subtle movements of his features in the dark. Caoilainn’s arms curled into her chest and she scooted closer to the warmth of his large frame. “I dreamt we had a baby.”_

_“Oh,” he made a quick reply from surprise, and his body tightened. He paused before saying more. “Was it a good dream?”_

_She moved even closer, pressing her cheek against his chest. Caoilainn hummed confirmation and sighed. “It was. But my cycle hasn’t returned, I don’t know when a baby will even be possible. If it’s even possible.”_

_As occurred for all Grey Warden women after surviving their Joining, Caoilainn’s menstrual cycle became sporadic and eventually ceased. Morrigan had reported even with the cure, their organs may not heal enough from the damage caused by the taint to conceive._

_Alistair gave an exhausted yawn; his fingers traced a long line from her hip to her cheek. “We have plenty of time to find out… and positions to try.”_

_“Alistair! You’re incorrigible.” Caoilainn scolded, chuckling as she pushed him away, but he pulled her in with success. She tilted her head back, glancing up to kiss him but his rough chin brushed her cheek. “And you still need to shave this mess of stubble.”_

_“The beard stays, my Queen,” he replied; she heard the smile in his voice. “And I will do filthy things to you with it when we get back to the palace.”_

* * *

_Cloudreach 9:42_

Days later, they reached Denerim in the early evening. City gates opened to the royal convoy and military forces rode around to a separate entrance to the capital, putting their horses in stables and shedding armor from the ride. Merchants yet to pack for the day and clusters of shoppers stopped to watch the King and Queen trot through the cobbled courtyard. Townspeople eyed one another, surprised looks passed between them, startled to see the no-longer-missing Queen beside Alistair.

When they reached the palace, the couple descended from their horses; the creatures taken by attendants to lead them to the stables. Caoilainn stared up at the entrance to the palace. Giant doors glared down, imposing reminders of her failure and abandonment of the kingdom, her king. Lost in unpleasant memories, she forgot Alistair stood beside her until his hand grazed hers. Fingers weaved, he squeezed her hand.

“Are you all right?” He glanced to the side, scanning Caoilainn’s wide eyes held at the doorway.

She made a small hum in reply without breaking her gaze straight ahead. _Chin up, tits out._ With a deep breath, her posture straightened, and she stepped forward with Alistair. The doors creaked open, revealing the interior of the palace. A long hallway covered in color, beams supporting the ceiling draped with Theirin banners and the walls lined with sigils of the country's bannorns and arlings. Large wooden doors staggered down both sides of the hall, some leading to the outside and others further inside the castle.

With a shared glance, slow strides carried Alistair and Caoilainn through the empty great hall. It looked the same as Caoilainn last remembered it as if nothing had changed in the five years she had been absent. She took a step from him and old feelings returned. Unsettled, stir crazy at the sight of stone walls and wood beams, house colors insinuating admonitions of her treachery. She paced down the hallway, stopping at the stairs to the altar at the other end; the place of their wedding and coronation. Her eyes fell on the Andrastian shrine.

Alistair watched as she walked away, curious of the thoughts running through his enigmatic wife’s head. But the thoughts ended. In a swift turn, she blurted, “I need work.”

He heard the plea behind her declaration. Desperation for something to keep her occupied cast into her relentless work ethic. _There’s a surprise,_ his sarcastic thought melted to an endearing grin.

“You’ve been back all of five minutes and you already want to start work?” His tone lingered on the last word and he walked to her. “Scratch that. Silly question. Of course you do, my tenacious Queen. And that was part of our agreement.”

Alistair’s hands found her hips; Caoilainn’s brows made a delicate bunch, begging him to understand her need. “Have you considered my offer to lead your army?”

“Oh,” he chuckled, “an offer, was it? It sounded more like a demand. And I have thought about it, but I’ve yet to set up a meeting with all of my advisors. Since, as I'm sure you're aware, we just got back.” Alistair sighed, his hand finding his forehead. He glanced away before looking back to Caoilainn. “I don’t think they will approve. The army is only sword and shield and there are only a handful of women.” His response vaguely explained his hesitation.

“And?” The furrow in her brows intensified and her lip raised. “I’ve led all combat styles… and men. You know I'm more than qualified. And perhaps it’s time to consider adding some variety to your militia. Maybe even more women. That is, if you're willing to drop the status quo.” Sarcasm lined her tone, but she shook it off, focusing on her request at hand. “I can handle the pushback, Alistair.”

Alistair’s lips pursed before he gave a close-lipped smile; his hand came back down to her hip, drawing a line on her waist through the fabric of her tunic. “It won’t be easy. You will step on the toes of men who’ve served Ferelden since before we were born.” He referred to lieutenants and generals in his army who had been serving for decades and would not be receptive to a new leader.

Dusky light filled the room, lit braziers crackled low light through the hall. Red and gold carpet lined the expansive and empty hallway- the same hall she walked on her wedding day- stretched from one side of the royal couple, and the altar where they married stood at the other. A breath of space between them, Caoilainn dropped to one knee. From a knelt bow at the King’s feet, the Queen’s fist crossed her chest. Alistair's brows furrowed in confusion, and he opened his mouth to speak but no words came.

She stared at his boots; her voice, poised and confident, rang through the hall. “I, Caoilainn Theirin, Queen of Ferelden and servant to her country, will uphold the oaths of fealty I have given you, the kingdom, and our marriage.” She paused, breathing as she chose her words. “Should you, Alistair, son of Maric, use me as Commander of your army, I swear to strengthen your forces and protect your throne.” She looked up. Brows creased, her intense silvery-blue stare found his hazel. “Please. Let me serve you, my King.”

Taken aback by her propriety, baffled by her willingness to bow outside the bedroom, Alistair's widened eyes adjusted, realizing it was his turn to speak. He grinned; bashful cheeks reddened, hidden by the dim light until he regained his composure. His grin remained. “How could I possibly say no to that?”

She stayed at his feet, brow lifting as her lips pulled into a smile, but she remained silent.

“All right, all right,” he chuckled, shrugging his shoulders as he looked down at her with adoration. “Unless the advisors give me a valid reason to rethink this decision, I will make it happen, my Queen.” He suspected there would be resistance; appointing Caoilainn to Commander would arise allegations of nepotism, but her irrefutable success as Warden Commander spoke for itself. Any who disputed her competence would only do so out of a fear of change rather than favoritism. As far as his advisors knew, her reason for leaving the palace resulted from the Wardens needing her.

Alistair’s head tipped up, ushering Caoilainn to stand. “As much as I am enjoying your courtliness, I’d like you to rule beside me, not beneath me.”

Caoilainn rose to face him and the pair turned to the altar. A quiet recommitment to theirs vows to one another, they breathed together in solitude before returning to royal life.

Alistair wandered to the kitchen to discover what would be offered for dinner that evening so he could demand samples by right of the King. Caoilainn ventured into the palace, familiarizing herself with the stone halls, rooms occupied by serving staff on the lower floors and on the upper, unoccupied rooms for visiting guests. When she finally reached their bedroom, she noticed his belongings from the trip delivered outside the door before she opened it.  

Her heart sank. Void of all remnants of Caoilainn, her books, vanity, and desk missing from the room. His scent permeated, like sweet grass and  burning wood, reminding her of the campfires they spent so many nights beside. The same since she met him, unaltered by his years alone as King. He had the drapery changed; dark red cloth adorned the windows in place of the floral-patterned, ivory-colored fabric she had picked. He had even replaced the bed they once shared. The room was simple: a large coffer opposite a bed with a chair in the corner. Cautious steps took her to the wardrobe to find all her clothes removed. _I hope he didn’t throw all my things away._

She turned to the bed. It was massive; wood stained a deep mahogany framed the mattress, and four posts rose from the corners encasing the place she would now sleep nightly. A guilty pleasure: black silk sheets covered the cushion, nothing like the neutral tone of Highever weave Caoilainn selected so long ago. The eerie sensation, feeling unwelcome in her own room passed when she looked closer at the headboard. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw roses etched into the wood.

She continued her journey, wandering through the wing of the palace with the King and Queen’s private rooms.  A few doors down from their bedroom, she spotted her chest of belongings outside another doorway. The room had formerly been for storage, but when she opened the door, she saw it had been cleared. The stone walls adorned with blue and green tapestries marked with laurels, the Cousland sigil. A daybed sat near a window next to her filled bookshelf. Their old chest of drawers sat at one end of the room, undoubtedly filled with all her missing vestments. Her perfume and hairbrush rested on the surface of her vanity at the opposite end. And in the middle, her desk. Letters lay neatly stacked on one corner of the empty desktop. A blanket of dust covered everything; Alistair had not been in this room for many years.

Fleeting thoughts of Alistair’s banishment of all things that had retained her essence dissolved entirely; she sighed in appreciation of this room as her own amidst what they shared. Lingering heartache of leaving the Wardens fueled anxiety surrounding new responsibilities as Commander and Queen, but for this brief moment, she absorbed the thoughtful attention Alistair had put into this room. Her eyes stung from guilty tears; she blinked them away, determined to appreciate this gift.

Expecting to find something unopened from Weisshaupt at the top of the stack, she browsed through letters at her desk. All of them had been opened, the most recent letter dated from two years ago. Any resentment for having her mail read without her permission fled; Caoilainn’s understanding of Alistair’s compounded frustration made his decision to read through her letters unsurprising, if not expected. She found nothing of importance as she browsed through. Well wishes, name day celebrations, and invitations to noble gatherings around the realm. The absent Weisshaupt letter created worry; she would check with their messenger the following day.

But the hour grew late; certain Alistair had either started dinner without her or sat impatiently waiting provided motivation. She opened the wardrobe, hoping her clothes had not been eaten by moths. Optimism not in vain, her clothes held through her years away. Dresses varying in colors and fabrics lined the drawers of the coffer as well as clean tunics and smallclothes.

She cleaned in the washroom down the hall and donned clean clothes before heading down to dinner in a dress of red and gold, different from the Warden regalia she had worn with pride for so long. With a glimpse in the mirror of her vanity, she startled to see the woman staring back. A Queen, not a Grey Warden. Armor absent, replaced by a flowing gown. Mixed emotions swirled within. The look suited her well, and she knew Alistair would approve.

Sitting in a foyer near the stairway, Alistair rose when he heard soft steps. All the fleeting memories of jealousy and distrust subsided as he watched her looking the opposite direction toward the dining hall in expectation. Graceful contours defined by the red dress clinging to her. Alistair’s eyes followed Caoilainn with gratitude. Her poised frame, well-trained and toned from combat practice wore the dress with class. And he knew she preferred armor to gowns. The gift of witnessing her in this attire did not go unnoticed. His lovely, strong-willed wife, out of her element and in pursuit of him for once; he considered remaining quiet so he could observe her longer.

“Maker’s breath.” His voice broke the silence. She made a small gasp and turned to him. “I am a lucky man.”

She exhaled in relief, and her lips tugged to a grin. Blue eyes sparkled in the braziers’ light; alluring shadows cast over the smooth curves of her face. She took his arm when he offered, and the couple walked to the dining hall together. Plans for the following day discussed over their meal, underlined by flirtation about their plans for after dinner; Caoilainn’s worry about Weisshaupt and the Wardens pacified by Alistair’s pleasant company.

 

 

 

 

[](https://etaeternum.tumblr.com/post/153136962661/maker-help-me-xla-hainex-is-a-goddess-please)   [](https://etaeternum.tumblr.com/post/153136962661/maker-help-me-xla-hainex-is-a-goddess-please)  
Art by xla[-](http://xla-hainex.tumblr.com/)hainex

* * *

 

Mutual attraction survived the cleansing of the taint; libido no longer propelled by constant, aching hunger only heightened arousal and anticipation.

“My Queen,” he addressed her with a smile, closing the door to their bedroom behind him. His tempting timber resonated love and desire with two simple words.

Long, elegant strides took Caoilainn further into the bedroom, his room. It represented him in his confident masculinity, sentimental hints available for those who understood. Earlier fears of being exiled from his life felt foreign in the wake of Alistair’s warm welcome into his space, his heart.

Her brow arched, Caoilainn glanced over her shoulder to meet his searching gaze. A man stared back: tall, handsome, kind, and yearning. The message she received from his eyes prompted her turn. She curtsied with purpose, engaging in the practiced dynamic built between them in private, and echoed, “my King.”

Caoilainn’s deliberate submission taunted him; tactful and coy application of her nobility took his mind to bawdy places. Images flitted of the lewd things he'd like to do with her, to her. But the thoughts were preemptive; Alistair reigned in his lust, determined to find patience and show his wife veneration before acting on sordid desires.

A glimmer in her stare as she waited for him suggested she had similar fantasies of her own. Their unspoken agreement to savor this evening compelled composure. 

Disciplined strides took him to her, his gaze locked with hers without losing peripheral appreciation of her shape. Fabric cascaded from her graceful curves but her stature, dutiful but open, vulnerable, and willing made his love burn stronger. The long-standing urge for this particular woman sustained. His hand found her her cheek, softer edges of the back of his digits uncurled as they traveled to her hair. She shivered and closed her eyes, relishing in his touch.  

Alistair leaned his head by hers; a smooth, warm tenor floated to her ear, “I adore you.”

The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Unprepared for the poignant selection of words and their impact, Caoilainn blushed in a flustered daze. Inhaling to slow the beating of her heart, absorbing the affection he gave so freely. She tried to tame her modesty. Collecting herself, demure reactions melted with her poise and reciprocated his love. Her palm touched his elbow, keeping him close. She whispered, “I'm grateful for you. I'm yours, Alistair.”

Rough digits threaded further through her tresses, encouraging the weight of her head to rest in his palm. His other hand curved around the small of her back, supporting her as she leaned. He leaned with her, soft lips surrounded by patchy stubble pressed her mouth. Breathing her in, the faint perfumed scent of jasmine and honeysuckle complemented the lavender of the soap she used.

A closed-mouth moan into his lips, Caoilainn succumbed. Appreciating all aspects of him, even his facial hair tickling her skin. Easing back, waiting for his direction, the blissful kiss stretched until the slightest pressure separated her lips. Tongue caressed tongue, a gentle motion firm in its execution. She met his kiss with equal intensity. Well-established trust ignited wanting heat, tingling energy coursed through her body.

He stopped with reluctance. His willingness to remain a gentleman waned; breeches growing tight and uncomfortable -he wanted her. To take her in all her willing passion in a rushed interchange. But they had done that many times in their journey back to Skyhold; recent intimacy on their way back to Denerim withheld intercourse as they recovered from their cure. Hurried contact would not serve the King and Queen; abandoning the significance of the first night back in the palace, and the new terms to their relationship, rules formed to assure its success. Both wished to maintain the meaningful symbolism, another layer of the consummation of their new life together. Their evening of courting contributed to their amour, pure and uninfluenced by the tainted connection.

“This dress looks lovely on you,” he said, creating space between them.

“I’d look better without it, my King.” She smiled, her words unimposing. An offered image for his mind rather than a demand or request.

“I can’t argue,” his grin widened causing creasing lines to form around his eyes, gaze darkened by lustful motives. “Let’s do something about that then, shall we?”

She gave a small nod and turned around, revealing muscled shoulder blades peeking out of the lines of her dress. A lengthy ribbon wrapped up the center through small slits from the curve of her back to the dress’s neckline, tied at the top. _How did she get this on herself?_ He wondered for a second before he loosened the laces. Patient hands completed their task and helped her from her dress, draping it over the coffer.

She wore lacy lingerie given as a gift, more for himself than for her. Stunning, enticing, the sight of the delicate fabric on her fair frame made his blood flow. His breeches grew tighter, but he bridled his drive and gave her an order.

“Lay down,” his loving direction joined the tilt of his head to the bed behind her.

Her lashes fluttered, pupils dilating; the pink glow to her cheeks returned. She murmured, “yes, my King,” and did as he said. A few steps backward carried her to the bed, excited to learn of his plans for the evening, the filthy things he alluded to a few days prior. She slid on the smooth sheets, her arms helping her maneuver to the headboard. Palms pressed against the mattress, she leaned against the headboard. The slight curvature of her spine defined her flowing form.

As it always did when he made her wait, guessing his next action, her heart raced. He turned around to the chest of drawers and removed his outer layer of armor, placing his fur lined leathers next to her dress. His rounded back reached over, gathering something from another compartment of his coffer. The tunic he wore teased her; revealing shadows of his superb musculature. Yearning heat between her legs provoked satisfying discomfort, subtle wriggles attempted to abide her arousal. Deliberate to keep whatever he did out of her sight, she delighted in the torture he delivered with his disciplined control.

After picking something off the floor, he took a casual turn and stepped to the bed. Reserved enthusiasm, he blinked slowly, locking eyes with her again as he sat down, setting a coil of rope and a blindfold beside him.

Her eyes widened and her brows creased, but her expression relaxed with a breath. Waiting continued, she returned her stare to his.

“Is this what you want?” An even tone inquired, confirming her willingness to engage in this form of their lovemaking despite knowing the answer.

The eager leap of her stomach settled, but her excitement remained. Brimming with curiosity to learn his intent for her, she studied him, his features. The strong, square jaw, sloping nose, and reddish brows of her partner indulged her delay without burden. His calm and unconditional love soothed her impatience.

“It is, my King.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to know what you think!!! Comments are welcome. Happy new year everyone!!


	18. The Bound Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair and Caoilainn enjoy the rest of their evening. (NSFW. Light BDSM themes.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Regarding BDSM themes, I just want to throw in a writer's note that this is Caoilainn and Alistair's way of rebuilding intimacy after all they've been through. It's a kink for them. They do not have a D/s relationship. If you'd like to talk more about this, I'd love to chat. You can find me on tumblr. Etaeternum.

Love abound with patience. The King and Queen survived five years apart, full of lies and deceit with nothing but will, and now they reaped the rewards. Keen eyes studied the woman on his bed, their bed, waiting for him and his direction. Alistair left the coil and blindfold as he removed his belt and loosened his breeches to relieve discomfort.

Caoilainn watched him pull his shirt off. Cheeks flushed, lip bitten; her tempted gaze followed every action, wandering his body, ambling on her favorite locations. His face: the youthful smile in his eyes, unburdened by faint wrinkles, and a nose so skilled at nuzzling her skin the thought made her stomach flutter. His wide chest, built over a large ribcage angled to a lean midsection; the narrow path of darker hairs disappearing into his unlaced and bulging breeches. His large shoulders when he turned to move the chair from the corner; she admired taut skin accented by small, rippling lines and countless curves.

Resting against the headboard, the uneven lines of etching pressed against her scalp; a physical reminder of him, a satisfying itch. Dramatic inhales filled her lungs in response; each nervous breath expanded her chest.

Returning to the bed, he picked up the silky white ribbon, wide enough to cover her eyes, and rubbed it between his fingers.

The soft jerk of his head directed her to come to him; her waist retracted at the gesture. Insides tickled with flirty sensations pulling her. The daunting distance between them magnified by the oversized bed, endlessly stretching the longer she stared. But the ribbon between his hands, the blindfold waiting to relieve her of sight and heighten her other senses made an abundant invitation.

Copious amounts of respect and trust reverberated through the room as the dutiful Queen reached her destination before her King. Close to eye level, long lashes fluttered over eager eyes. A sensual smirk remained on her lips as she willingly pressed her gaze into the ribbon. Negotiating boundaries, a give and take of faith and action, she honored him with her submission.

Careful not to catch her hair, he tied the blindfold at the back of her head. The gentle squeak of the cloth rubbing sounded as the knot secured; not too tight, inflicting no pain. Alistair appreciated the sight of Caoilainn still and alert, attempting to hear and feel every subtle sign of movement. Her confidence held between breaths; she maintained composure, certain she could adjust to whatever surprise came next.

“You also look fantastic in those smallclothes,” he murmured, hot breath landing on her collarbone. His comment played on their earlier conversation about her dress, now on the floor.

Tatted fabric, thin and sheer, revealed shadowed lines of her breasts beneath. The cloth teased tender skin, nipples hardened with arousal, tight with anticipation. Adapting to his breath as her anchor as she settled in the imposed darkness.

She felt his breath travel to her other ear. “They’d look better on the floor.”

His fingers curled around the camisole. With a swift nod, she raised her arms in gracious agreement with his decision. Lace slid on smooth skin, tantalizing keen senses. She soothed herself with a conscious breath. But large digits maneuvered clever coaxing, keeping nerves alight. A thumb traced her jawline. Then wide hands followed her shoulders to her wrists leaving a trail of gooseflesh in their wake as his digits brushed hers. Acclimating her eager senses to his touch, caresses explored other surfaces of her bareness.

Calming her breathing and body, pacifying its reactions to Alistair's hands, she discovered torturous luxury as he fondled her.

Alistair relished it, a blank canvas for his digits to wander; his Queen's indomitable self-control elegantly applied. Curious, testing, Alistair filled his palm with the weight of her breast. Pleasant and unexpected pressure. A faint moan escaped pink lips before pursing in search of his kiss from habit. A passive routine, knowing his mouth would be nearby. He watched her hand flex in anxious waiting and grinned at Caoilainn’s enthrallment. Satisfied not only with the round flesh he kneaded with his hand but also with her impassioned restraint.

Extending a reward, counter to her expectations, his nose tickled the sensitive space between her breasts. A soft nuzzle, appreciating the warmth her heart emanated before the slope of his nose slid up her chest and lifted her chin. He lightly kissed her lips. And as he did, both hands found her rear, cupping the magnificent fullness. Her skin contrasted the stitched cloth of her panties against his palm. She gasped again and giggled with shock. In a swift motion, he leaned her weight to him and picked her up.

She released a startled yelp, “Alistair!”

He replied with a loving shush, and his nose tucked into her neck. Whiskers brushed delicate flesh; Alistair’s sweet resonance traveled up to her ear, “What was that? 

Ingrained awareness, pure muscle memory, brought her hands to his shoulders, steadying herself as he placed her in the chair. A single step back left her arms suspended, dictating her movements, causing her to lean forward; desperate nerves sought satisfaction by his touch.

But distance forced Caoilainn’s lapse in decorum to fade. Her posture straightened, poise returned. She felt the cushioned back of the chair support her spine, the pillowed seat against her clothed buttocks.

With a lurid breath, she spoke, “my King,” with finality. No questions about his motives, she summoned patient confidence, trusting whatever she awaited.

And her fortitude was compensated. “My Queen,” Alistair cooed as his digits grazed along her sides, tracing their way to the sewn line of her smallclothes. “Up,” his husky timbre directed.

Her brows wrinkled but she obeyed. Lifting her rear with the arms of the chair as support, allowing him to pull her panties down her legs. The tatted fabric tingled extended limbs as he removed her smallclothes. A small act of worship, he held her heel and kissed the top of her foot, tickling just above her toes, before he set it down.

The naked Queen sat upon her interim throne for the King to have his way.

He gathered rope and gave another instruction. “I want you to tell me if anything hurts. I don’t want to harm you.” Creased brows marked steely eyes examining his wife’s compliance. Expressionless, the enigmatic woman remained silent. “No pain, Caoilainn.”

She couldn’t see his frown or his stare insisting her cooperation through the darkness, but she heard it in his tone. “Yes, my King.” She made a respectful nod. Her insides tightened and her heart rate sped; the prospect of pain amplified delighted curiosity, but a nervous doubt pondered her willingness to forego the opportunity.

The looming worry dissolved when she heard rustling. A moment later she felt the warmth of him standing near her. Firm and decided, but gentle with pressure he grasped a wrist, bringing an arm over her head directing the bend at her elbows. Rough scratches of cord grazed posed limbs; rope wrapped, tightening around one upper arm.

And as the cord tightened, her breathing shallowed. Fibers bound and tension built, escalating her senses for discomfort; the binding reached its extent shy of pinching. Alistair secured several knots, fastening her posed arm and returned to face her from the front giving a satisfied hum, pleased with the results of his energy.

She laid her head back, surrendering to the support of the chair and her King continued with determination. With purposeful force, his hands found her ankles and lifted her legs over the arms of the chair. Bold exposure of her most private region provoked her sharp inhalation.

She made a wordless whimper. Abashed cheeks reddened; her heart raced, but she didn’t resist. Instead, she brought her free thumb to her teeth, biting on the end to ease anxiety as he bound rope around her thigh.

He glimpsed up. The sight. Her tempered trusting apprehension evoked by his actions made the concentration required for the process worthwhile. Kneeling as he tied her, the exhibit of her nakedness provided a tempting distraction from his mission. Glistening lines of her swollen pink allured, blatantly yearning for his attention, but he thwarted his hungry compulsion.

A kiss on the inside of her knee soothed the Queen’s defenselessness. “Breathe, my Queen,” he ordered, obligating inhalations to console her piqued worry.

He resumed his binding quest from her thigh to her ankle and foot. Extra bedclothes under her knees assured comfort and the protraction of her long limbs.

The rope seemed endless with her limited perception. Alistair moved making the floor creak beneath his feet, changes in air pressure, every craving nerve detected his motion. Cord snug but not strained on her body traveled under the chair. The sudden, soft brush of his hand to her arm required her to take her thumb from her teeth.

One side echoed the other, and she held her breath as the rope wrapped again. Tighter this time. Fibrous cord dug into her skin, causing dull tingles. She debated silence, choosing to allow him to inflict pain without his awareness, risking her injury.

“There,” she murmured. Proud beneath her blindfold, she voiced her limit. Alistair stopped in an instant. “My King, it’s too tight.”

Furrowed brows, concerned for his wife's well-being checked the tension of the cord and loosened the bind. “Is that better, my love?” It required her to restate her chosen boundary.

A small nod, she gave unfeigned gratitude. “Thank you, my King.”

Enraptured silence swelled as he carried the fibrous cord’s path to her last limb. Completing the trail of trained knots and length of taut rope in the intricate weave. Her body immobilized and uncovered. The present moment enveloped awareness; complete absorption in the gift of shared time until the final knot tied. Arms bent past her head, and her legs stretched in flagrant vulnerability; she relaxed in the blissful stretch. Intoxicated by the blind freedom of immobility, certain he enjoyed her display; she smiled.

“You look marvelous, my Queen.” Alistair sat on the edge of the bed to witness her body ease fully into the binds’ suspension.

He approved of his work: ropes secured and unyielding, but not so much as to hurt as long as she didn’t chafe from squirming. Patient in her dutiful waiting through the heady silence between them, Caoilainn remained calm. She wanted work and now she had it: to find serenity.

Now he indulged. _The bound Queen in perfect submission, a spectacle for his eyes alone._ Breasts lifted by raised arms, rounded over a delineated ribcage. Edges of bone ending at her midsection graduated to a toned waist, slimmer from the elongated position. A slight bend to the knees, smooth legs reached and spread open. The most refined intimacy.

Gates opened to her threshold. Soft skin surrounded, breaching the space to her elegant lines blooming from the center. Feminine curves contoured from beautiful flesh, venturing inward to her velvety entrance. And above, the hooded locus of sensory provocation, reliably awakening her most profound moans and trembling reactions. Inspiring his desire and adoration, he claimed this moment to appreciate the location with utmost sincerity. Unrushed and untamed reverence for this gift, her meaningful compliance. Pride shed without expectation, her sacrifice of inhibitions spoke more of willing commitment than when she offered her life for his on the battlefield.

“Are you comfortable, my Queen?” His question broke silence. Arms crossed over his bare chest as he leaned on the bed; he grinned at her tied, reclining comfort.

Feeling the warmth from his gaze observing her exposed state, she flourished in the casual tempo of this engagement. Though Caoilainn hated talking during intimacy in the past, she valued his communication. “I am. Thank you.” Thanks sparked curiosity. “My King, where did you learn how to do this?”

“Do what, my love?” He suspected the topic of the question but wanted her to clarify. Attention held longer on what he created with his own two hands, value shown by her inquiry and differentiating from their previous conflict around his spying.

Unable to move to gesture, nor even see the complicated web of rope around her, she raised her voice to celebrate his technique with vocal accolades. “All of this. These knots. It’s incredible.” She felt the even pull of rope from locked points on her arms and legs, perfect tension saving any limb from feeling overburdened.

“Oh, here and there,” his smirking reply gave no answers, shrugging off the significance of her praise. “I had too much time on my hands when you were gone. When less healthy forms of distraction stopped working, I found new hobbies.” Slow words and slower steps took him to her. He witnessed gooseflesh rising on her arms from his moving presence.

“Learning how to tie your naked wife so she can never run away again?” Her witty remark stayed flirty, a breathy tone translating genuine enjoyment of the amusing circumstances. She felt him front of her, nearing.

“Exactly,” he chuckled, closing the last of the space between them. “Though I hope not to need to keep you tied for you to stay.”

“I am here by choice, my King.” The reply said as much about being bound as her choice to return to Denerim.

Standing over, she felt his body calling her. Alive with love, pulling need for his touch from within. The skin of his chest hovered near hers. With nothing else touching, he lowered his head and kissed her. Lips met, and she responded with a gratified hum, reciprocating his tenderness with her own. Searching for him, she held onto this sliver of contact with all her essence and whimpered in disappointment when he pulled away.

But the short-lived whimper stopped when his kiss found her collarbone. She inhaled, holding her breath, eagerly awaiting his lips’ next destination. A finger brushed her neck, caressing her cheek with a thumb. She sighed, soaking up every drop of attention Alistair gave. Then a kiss landed on the top of her sternum, and another further down. Lingering at the center, the space between her breasts a cherished spot along her body. His smile made his whiskers tickle her skin. Caoilainn gave a light giggle. But the hand at her neck traveled to her breast, stopping her light laughter short. She bit her lip again.

Alistair massaged the round flesh as his knees bent. The King knelt before his Queen. His kisses lowered down her tummy to her pelvic bone, teasing her wanton urges with his mouth’s affection. Heavy breaths requited his patience, motivating him to prolong the moment; appreciation for his accomplishments not lost to heated lust. His hands touched her knees and his kisses stopped.

“My Queen,” he addressed her from below, summoning her focused attention. She awaited his pleasant voice, but his kiss reached the inside of her knee before continuing. The purposeful drag of his cheek tickled her skin with his facial hair. “Where would you like to feel my mess of stubble next, my lovely,” he kissed further inward, “patient,” his lips landed on her inner thigh, “tied-up wife?”

She took a sharp inhale, and a sultry, strained laugh sounded through her exhale. He joked at her previous admonishment of his pursuit of a beard.

After a pregnant pause, a clear tone delivered cordial regard. “Wherever my King deems me worthy.”

His grin turned to a wide smile, and he shook his head, impressed with her courtly etiquette. Open palms dragged along the bare skin inward. Pressure applied to her upper leg, over the rope, and to her inner thigh. Holding force against the ticklish places, he watched her chest rise and fall with hopeful anticipation. The slickness of her heat lay within thumb’s reach, already glistening with yearning, soaking the cushion beneath her. He kissed her pelvic bone again, and she shuddered. Both his thumbs gently ran along nether lips.

She used every last effort to further elongate her body, imagining the roll of her hips toward him where the actual movement was not available. He rewarded her ambition. The ridge of his nose nuzzled her heat, caressing upward to the sensitive center, following the motion with a kiss.

The uncontrollable twitch of her body joined her moan. “Maker’s fucking breath, Alistair,” Caoilainn cried out, before she remembered decorum, “my King.”

His grin returned, and he looked up to her even though she couldn’t see. “Too much? I can stop.”

“No!” She whined, her head tilting further, her back arching. Body hot with salacious intent, she begged, “please. No. Keep going, my King. I want more.”

“You’re absolutely sure?” He quipped, taunting her excitement with delay.

“Yes,” she groaned. A deep breath tried to stabilize her libidinous hysteria. “Yes, my King. Please, don’t stop.”

The same trick with his nose ending in a kiss at her bundle provoked another moan. Expectant of the occurrence, she maintained composure. Heaving breaths animated heightened arousal as Alistair continued, intensifying strategic oral authority. His tongue glided against tender folds, tasting her wetness as an achievement. Lips closed around her point of nerves; sucking, he made her wail. Her head lolled to the side.

Moaning, Caoilainn called his name in a plea. “Alistair… my… King.” Long pauses between words filled with laughing cries, pleading for his understanding of her torture.

A smile skimmed her wetness and his chuckles transformed into vibrations, but his mouth remained in place. Sucking turned to his tongue’s caresses along the equivalent spot. Her whimpers became consistent moans; gasps changed to panting. His hands slid up her body, running along her warm midsection.

Muscles clenched, ascending to the apex. But his motions ceased. Alistair stopped just as much to torment as to promise a more fulfilling climax later. Her body clinging to the edge of the peak she neared.

“ _Someone_ was awfully close to finishing,” he evaluated with proud surprise. “And I don’t think she was going to ask first.” His dulcet tone playfully reprimanded her lack of protocol despite his certainty her hazy thoughts, clouded by building pleasure, prevented her from asking for permission.

Malevolent thoughts fluttered through her mind as quickly as her heart raced. Cursing Alistair’s withholding her climax when she lacked the cognitive ability to ask. But his body leaned to hers, radiating his glow and promising passion. She sighed in relief, remaining silent as her piqued nerves found relief, waiting for him to give her instruction.

Wandering kisses traveled across her reluctantly relaxing body as he stood. Hands ventured along with him, brushing her limbs with gentle, slow motions and sparking lone trembles. He savored the last few moments of her relinquished poise, helpless to his conquest, with a kiss on her lips.

“As much as I love watching you in this state,” he whispered in her ear, “the rope has served its purpose. Are you ready to be untied, my Queen?”

The enchanting sight of her hopelessly succumbing to bliss led to his mindful forfeit to his own desire to be with her. His member remained half swollen through the duration of their intimacy but grew desirous when he pleased her. His erection pressed against his leather pants as he stood between her legs.

Brows furrowed beneath the blindfold, knowing his plan to remove her binds would require her to wait. “Please, my King.” The polite reply joined her meager nod.

Measured and deliberate hands undid the lover’s knots. Unfastened with more ease than it took to create them, the tension released from one side to the other. The last of her bindings dropped to the ground, and her arms fell to her lap. Tingling sensations covered her body as blood surged where it was once constricted. Though she could not see them, she felt the indentions rope left in her skin from the cool air in the room.

Her pulse slowed, returning awareness visualized him standing, upright. His lower torso near her face instigated sordid thoughts and an urge to please; to offer a sexual favor she had never given Alistair or any man. “I know what I want next, my King.”

Observing her settling into her freedom with endearment, her statement intrigued him. Eyes squinted, maintaining their smile. “And what might that be?”

She demurely bit her lip. Her arms pressed against the chair as she found her posture. “I want to give the King the same gift he bestowed upon me. With my mouth.”

“Really?” He blurted in shock, mouth gaping. Grateful for her blindfold, he shook his surprise and resumed amused detachment. “That is quite adventurous of you, my love. You’re sure?”

“I am, my King.” Her chin lifted, and she licked her lower lip before pulling it with her teeth in anticipation of Alistair’s decision.

He considered options: ignoring her request allowed him to hold more control but ending their game favored balance and shared power in their romantic interaction.

“My generous Queen,” his hand brushed her cheek, and his tone rang sincerely, “I would be honored.”

“So selfless of you.” She gave a light-hearted laugh and smiled. Her masked eyes still gazed blindly upward, and her palms lifted to him. “Will you guide my hands, my King?”

He smiled at the juvenile moment. This experience reminiscent of other firsts they shared when they were younger, but an added maturity fused with respect made this unique. Unrushed, removed his breeches and small clothes.

The royal couple faced each other: the seated Queen with outstretched arms below her nude and loving King. Alistair took her hand to his shaft and wrapped her fingers around. His heart rate sped as he observed her stroke him. Gradual pressure securing him in her palm. Heavy lids blinked.

The hard and wide member welcomed her touches, but wanton urges pushed for more. She opened her mouth, extending her tongue to lick the head leisurely. He shuddered and his fingers laced her hair. Limited senses inspired lewd intuition. She brought her lips around his length and extended her tongue to cover her teeth.

“Maker’s breath.” Alistair’s head dropped back as he groaned.

The utterance gave incentive, motivating drive. She sucked. Hand holding his base, stroking the rest she didn’t dare to take in. But the movement continued, finding rhythm, changing angles with her mouth to cover space and spread saliva.

He moaned and looked down. Enamored with the sensations she stimulated with her mouth, he watched her move over him. Deep inhales accented by his occasional shudders. Her free hand found his hip, gripping him for stability. Her wetness ached; the damp cushion beneath her a constant reminder of her need. But her service sparked the most ravenous reactions from him, only heightening her desire. So she continued, accepting her husband’s shivers and groans as just reward.

“Caoilainn... Maker... my Queen.” He stammered, losing his etiquette in pleasured abandon. “I need you,” a labored, groaning chuckle interrupted, “...on the bed. Right now.”

She pulled up, pursed lips caressing his shaft before she answered. “Whatever the King demands.”

After an affectionate kiss to the crown of her head, he pulled off her blindfold and scooped her up with both arms. She gasped and giggled, her arms instinctively wrapping around his neck. With a short walk to the bed, he plopped her down and crawled to join her.

Nearly touching, staring eye to eye until walls fell to a passionate kiss, heated, hurried after hours of agonizing seduction. Intensity rebuilt, rushed kisses and fondling slowed as Alistair overpowered. Caoilainn lowered to her back, and he moved over her. Skin touching skin, warmth magnified by toned bodies’ contact. She kicked loose blankets down to their feet with urgency as his hands slid on her wrists. Trapping her yet again, this time beneath him. Slender legs made room, spreading to let him come closer. Their eye contact held. Pure amour, mirrored in each partner.

His forehead hovered over hers. Another kiss, but this time he bit her lip, making her lashes flutter. And after, he brought a hand to her jaw; his thumb dragged on her protruding lower lip. Hair disheveled from their activities, Caoilainn's soft skin and pink lips retained allure.

“You are beautiful,” he murmured. “Would you like to finish now?” She gave a timid nod and his smile spread, lustful intention twinkled in his eyes. “Roll over.” He sat up on his knees.

Her stomach lurched with excitement. She did as he said, bringing herself to her hands and knees in front of him. He absorbed the firm roundness of her exquisite ass and the exposed pink at the center for a moment. But need drove action. His hand grasped the curve of her hip for leverage and his other guided himself inside, gliding into the eager heat, penetrating her warmth. A low moan escaped the King; Caoilainn whimpered, her back arching as she looked up.

Impetus for gratification repeated with each end of wet friction. Thrusts incited moans. Melded frames grew closer. Rocking motions strengthened as he leaned over. A hand finding the bed on each side of her torso, his chest pressed to her back. Caoilainn lowered to her forearms, her tummy resting on the bed, submitting fully to his dominance from behind. The drastic arch in her back provided poignant entry.

Alistair kissed her ear, not losing momentum. Then her lips when she turned her head to him. Between moans their lips brushed, savoring affection through blissful throes of persuasive thrusts. Continuing patterns, playing with severity until Caoilainn’s moans changed; she tightened. Hours of sensual torture culminated to this moment. Himself, filling her with a steady cadence and pushing her to the earned apex. Permission received before they started, she came undone. “Alistair,” she murmured at the crest. Her body froze, the state lasting through his continued rocks.

Finished, she mustered what remaining energy she had to rise back on her hands and rocked with him. Pressing herself into him in time with each direction of his shaft. Sweat formed on his forehead, droplets dripped down his chest; the vein in his forehead defined with ecstasy. And he neared his release, escalated by her enthralled panting complementing the reactive squeezes of her core around him. The added force propelled his climax. Alistair called “Caoilainn.” With one last forceful thrust, then another, and he spent himself inside her.

Caoilainn held the position, body vibrating, recovering. Alistair’s head lowered. Breathing, his forehead rested on her back. Silent communication, he eventually pulled himself from her and the two lay facing on their sides. His eyes closed, drifting into a dazed consciousness.

Caoilainn released a tired giggle, “it’s confirmed. Grey Warden stamina is not a myth.” She yawned, “I’m exhausted.”

Alistair’s lips pulled to a grin. Without opening his eyes, he rolled to his back and pulled her to him. “Speak for yourself. Give me a quick nap and I would gladly do that all over again.”

With another laugh, she snuggled next to him, winding her legs with his. “Right, Alistair. Since when are you capable of quick naps?”

His absent response answered her question. He’d fallen asleep.

* * *

 

Late morning rays shone in through their windows. The couple rose together, nightclothes donned to prolong their intimate time together. A palace to themselves, save for serving staff, the pair took their time starting their day before organizing schedules and responsibilities.

Alistair ventured down to the kitchens for a bite to eat and some coffee, procrastinating a visit to his office to check the pile of letters he received while away. Caoilainn stood on their balcony, gazing out over the city to the rough seas in the distance. With languid delay, she traveled to her private room.

Relief washed over when she saw a letter pressed with the Warden seal on her desk. _Weisshaupt._ But the anxiety returned when she picked up the folded parchment. Her heart stopped. Scrolling text near the seal revealed the letters’ origination: _Vigil’s Keep._ She knew the sender was Nathaniel.

Interrupting her shock, Alistair’s voice rang from the hallway, nearing her office. “I have coffee for you, my dear.”

Panicking, she stuffed the note into her desk drawer just before Alistair entered the room. Two mugs, held by their handles in one hand and a letter in the other, the Inquisition’s crest visible at the top.

“And the Inquisition has written to inform us…” His sentence trailed; he set the mugs down on her desk, brow creasing as he returned to reading. “Well, would you look at that, they’ve defeated Corypheus.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to know what you think of this chapter! Sorry it took so long.


	19. Wildfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathaniel and the Grey Wardens return to Vigil's Keep. Alanna defeats Corypheus.

_“Damia,” Nate called to the Senior Warden as they set camp for the night. She helped her peer plant stakes for his small tent. “I need you and Gunnar to scope out the area and gather firewood when you're done here.”_  
  
_Both natives to Northern Ferelden, Damia and Gunnar had knowledge of the region where the Grey Wardens stopped. Damia’s motions continued, stretching rope from the tent to the earth, undisturbed by his order. The only indication she heard him was the pulse of her temples as she ground her teeth._

 _“Warden, did you hear me?” Nate asked again, his voice growing strained with his frustration._ _  
_

_"What was that?” Gunnar peered around from the other side of the tent. Though in close enough proximity to have heard, he feigned missing the instruction._

_“I said I need you two to scope the region and gather firewood. I don’t care if you split the responsibilities or share them, I need it done.” Nathaniel reiterated, offering options in hopes to gain compliance._

_Gunnar nodded, his expression cheerful. “So you want us to scout and gather wood, did I understand that Commander?” The Warden sang his reply with exaggerated eagerness._

_Nate’s eyes widened in disbelief. The small shake of his head showed bafflement at Gunnar’s response, requiring Nate to confirm the order again. “That is what I said. Yes. Take care of it.”_

_A long pause followed as the pair stared at Nate; Damia’s eye twitching broke the tension. Her and Gunnar put their fists to their chests and mumbled acknowledgement before heading off to complete the tasks._

Subtle disrespect persisted amongst the scouts as the Wardens’ march dragged for over a week to Vigil’s Keep. Nathaniel exhausted every last effort to maintain structure in spite of his dampened mood.

Members of what had been his team on their trip to the Arbor Wilds now revolted in minute ways. Nate feared his incompetence for the role of Warden Commander, exacerbated by the scouts’ acts. Disrespect tested boundaries, pushing the line as passive punishment to the new Commander for leaving Hale. Nate understood their anger; it resembled feelings he held toward himself.

The arrival back to Vigil’s Keep occurred as any other. Gates opened that afternoon to the stronghold, and the army welcomed them. A hilly field of grass, the buildings littered across the land appeared the same as when they left.

Soldiers aided in unloading carts, dividing responsibilities and finding their quarters before returning to appropriate stations. Seamless, with little need for direction from Nathaniel, the Wardens resumed their duties as if nothing had changed.

They joined over dinner in the feast hall the first night back. Unlike the eloquent speeches Caoilainn gave, Nate informed the army of the change in leadership before they ate. None asked him questions, but the hearty meal gave the opportunity for questions about Caoilainn to arise.

Through whispers of Caoilainn’s disappearance, soldiers linked her resignation to the shock through the bond all senior Wardens had experienced, including those who didn’t travel to Skyhold. Those on the Inquisition trip explained the odd series of events to those who had remained at the Keep. Rumored theories about the sensation’s meaning passed around, all too close to the truth. Giving up the belief he could control their gossip, he did not intervene. Unsure how to settle their confusion and not willing to lie, he avoided the topic.

The army resumed its activities for days and similar patterns continued, now within the confines of Vigil’s Keep. Some scouts retained their passive resistance to his orders, the army transitioned to his leadership with awkward confusion, and Nathaniel did not know how to address the whispers of Caoilainn.

All the while his imagination played tricks on him. A laugh echoed, reminiscent of Hale’s. Apparitions of the Huntress teased the corners of his eyes. Every time another decoy of her lured his head to turn, it sparked hope he’d spot her green eyes staring back. In the privacy of his room, he allowed his mind to indulge in pensive thoughts.

 _Radiating warmth welcomed him. Infectious laughter at the most inopportune times, humor found under all odds. A sharp tongue, capable of forming both biting words and sweet compliments. ‘_ I like the man you are now.’ _Her smile. Pointed canines suggesting shameless mischief, complementing the tips of her ears, enhancing the wildfire in her eyes._

_Hunting together, his breath matching hers. Connecting to the beat within the Huntress always moving with metered deliberation. When she played her drum, banging improvised rhythms she crafted with care, originating somewhere in her soul and transferring to the leather hide. Similar to when she rode him, passionate paces willing to adventure, finding and combining brilliant tempos on top of him as inspiration._

_Her kisses. Hungry and alive, soft red lips starved for him. Insatiable, always wanting more, and he was more than willing to oblige, lost in her affection. The way he felt when she was nearby: full, lifted, and fulfilled. It spurred craving. A deep aching hole caused by deprivation_

Gifts from the Huntress he'd taken for granted, not realizing their significance until she left. He didn't realize how much he'd miss her when he decided to end their relationship.

Disappointed in himself for hurting her, Nate’s influence on her decision to stay at Skyhold troubled him. _I didn’t deserve her._ The incident confirmed his incapacity for relationships, and his heartsickness served no purpose. Aimless anguish compounded his annoyance with his own naivete. Commitment to duty and the precedence he set as Commander required sacrifice of guilty pleasures.

 _Is she thinking of me?_ The wistful question recurred and instigated more grief.

He tried to clear his head. Each night mustering commitment to sleep early with plans to start the next day anew.  But despite the spacious bed, well-padded compared to his bedroll, he found poor sleep. Every night since he left Hale, sporadic stolen periods of restful slumber provided hollow respite from the hours he spent turning, wide awake, and burdened by self-defeating thoughts.  
  
A knock at the door woke him from a sleepy daze early one morning. Nathaniel stirred. His brow creased, but he didn’t move. The knock came again and a male voice reverberated, “Warden Commander? Are you up?” The grey sky suggested dawn had not yet arrived

“Aiden?” Nathaniel answered. Confused about his colleague’s intention calling upon him so early, Nathaniel rose, pulled on a clean shirt and breeches, then opened the door. The edge his free hand rubbing his forehead. “Can I help you?”

Philippa and Aiden stood together. The sorceresses with her hand on her hip, an impatient stare on her face. The mage appeared apologetic but worried. Philippa’s tutelage of Aiden made it uncommon to see them apart. The younger mage was far less brazen than the sorceress.

“May we come in?” Aiden dipped his head toward Nathaniel, glancing past him into the room.

 _No._ The initial response rested on the tip of his tongue, but he withheld most of his cynicism. “That depends on what you want.”

Aiden stifled his grin, knowing Nathaniel’s stoic nature well enough to read through his skepticism. “We’re concerned about your status as Warden-Commander.”

 _Me too._ Nate sighed, and his brows furrowed from tiredness. He glanced past the pair before stepping sweeping his arm for them to enter. Though not as close to Aiden as he was to Isenam, his few experiences with the mage had always been enjoyable if not amusing; the night Philippa healed Hale being the most recent.

A few steps in and Aiden turned, his lips twisted to a frown. “Many of us wonder about the previous Commanders sudden resignation, and some expressed concern a Junior Warden defected within your first night as Commander. You’re losing the support of the army. Your army.”

“I’ve noticed,” Nate blurted. A look passed from Philippa to Aiden, but both remained silent. The Commander sat on his bed, gesturing his hand for the mages to find seats where they wanted. He took a breath and reiterated. “I planned on addressing this today.”

He tried each day to find a strategy to explain Caoilainn’s departure and fell short. Nathaniel had no insight on how to remedy the loss of Hale to the scouts and himself.

Surprised at Philippa’s silence, Nathaniel observed her struggle as she held her tongue. After walking across the room and leaning on his desk, she tightened her lips and huffed, giving another glance to Aiden who leaned on a wall opposite the Commander’s bed.

“Commander,” Aiden addressed Nate with respect but looking to the ground. The mage’s forehead wrinkled and an index finger rubbed his chin. “The Wardens need to know you have their best interest in mind.”

Nathaniel’s brow furrowed, and an eyebrow cocked. “I don’t understand what I’ve done that has shown otherwise.” Frowning, his head shook as he spoke. His tone admitted his confusion about the situation and his loss for a clear solution.

Philippa’s voice rang from the corner, “Don’t be dumb, Nathaniel. Caoilainn treated _most_ of us as her children.” The mention of Caoilainn made Nate cringe, but Philippa completed her pointed comment. “But _you_ left the one Warden you held fondest. What does that speak of your allegiance to the rest of us?” One hand still planted on her hip, the index finger of the other aimed at him.

Nate’s shoulders collapsed; his frown deepened and his eyes grew large, shocked at Philippa’s forwardness. He shook his head. “This is not an appropriate conversation.” He stood, turning his back to them both, preparing to escort them from his room, but an inflection from Philippa’s statement about Caoilainn stuck out. He dreaded the answer to the question he was about to ask. Frozen at the door, his back still turned, he inquired, “what did you mean ‘ _most'_ of us as her children’?”

The pair of mages passed glances, a silent communication out of Nathaniel’s sight. Aiden cleared his throat before explaining. “We’ve, uh, suspected you’ve had illicit trysts with the previous Commander for years, Commander Howe.”

 _Shit._ A pregnant pause followed the potent words until Nate coughed. A blow to the chest, Aiden’s confession hit Nate with force. Mind reeling with confusion and embarrassment, he tried to catch his thoughts and his breath. Nathaniel glanced over his shoulder, his digits extending to wave away the subject. “We are _not_ having this conversation.” Stunned, cheeks tinged, hot with shame; he kept his back to them, unsure whether to rush them out or wait to hear what connection this had to him as Warden Commander.

“I told you,” Philippa spurned Aiden, quipping at Nathaniel’s response. He wasn’t sure if they suspected he’d confirm his affair with Caoilainn or had predicted his avoidant response prior to the conversation.

Aiden ignored Philippa and continued. “Commander Cousland led us well, and when she returned to the Wardens she earned a renewed respect and our gratitude for her sacrifice. We know from our own experience a Warden’s… _appetite_ is demanding. We could overlook what might have been immoral.”

Succumbing to this new reality, Nathaniel turned and leaned against the door. A significant secret reported to him, then pardoned by trusted colleagues. Trapped feelings of shock and violation, shame for his misdeeds revealed in such directness, his middle finger and thumb pressed against his temples. “The whole army?"

“The Senior Wardens,” Philippa answered, her eyes squinting to study Nate’s response. “Those of us smart enough to figure it out. The council is too dense to put the pieces together.” She referred to the advisors to the Warden Commander, leading officers like the Constable and Seneschal.

Nate stared at the wall opposite of him, eyes glazed. “This is unsettling,” he gave a gruff mumble.

“Most of us agreed it was not our business what arrangement or difficulty Commander Cousland had with the King, or she with you.” Aiden tried to ease Nathaniel’s reaction by explaining more.

Blinking away the daze, Nate’s brows bunched. “And the rest?”

Aiden made a weak chuckle, his head tilting to one side as he weighed his words. “It didn’t bother them enough to confront the former Commander or revolt.”

“Does everyone know about Hale?” Nathaniel pondered, bracing himself for the answer to the question. His arms came over his chest. The pink hue to his cheeks fading. Isenam had already informed Nate of the small band of scouts' knowledge, but Philippa and Aiden gave details his friend had withheld.

“Tut, tut.” Philippa scolded him, smirking and shaking her head. “I didn’t think Caoilainn would recommend one so dim-witted as her replacement. We are scouts for a reason.”

Nathaniel’s brow creased; in a question he looked from Philippa to Aiden who translated. “I believe what my mentor means is that most Wardens do not care who you’re bedding, Commander, so long as you lead us well and don’t show bias. As scouts, we witnessed yourself and the young Warden grow close.”

“Don’t listen to those prudish sons of bitches who mind it, Nathaniel dear,” Philippa added another remark in an endearing tone. Her arms crossed, and she nodded punctuation.

Perplexed, Nate nodded to both Aiden and Philippa, thanking them for their candidness, and allowed them to leave. The news rattled him. Grief allayed by a chance to pursue the Huntress, but regret compounded. _I’m an idiot._ Puzzled by the stark contrast in advice from Isenam and the mages, he found no simple solution. _And what of Weisshaupt?_ Caoilainn had used the order’s stipulations as reference, forbidding cross rank relations. Nathaniel had received no communication from the base since he returned to Vigil’s Keep

Unwilling to waste the First Warden’s time with such a question, and unsure who else to ask, Nathaniel wrote a letter. His need for guidance outweighed his guilt for writing but he apologized, regardless. Folding the parchment for his letter to Caoilainn and pressed the Grey Warden seal into the wax.

* * *

 

Ordered chaos. A jungle of people milling, meeting, training, and traveling in and out of the stronghold in sporadic waves. Preoccupied with work, Alanna left Hale alone. Though the Inquisitor received news of her cousin’s behavior, anytime Alanna prepared to scold Hale, obligations called her elsewhere. The huntress did not request, nor was she given responsibility within the Inquisition. Though Hale was unmotivated to involve herself in the activity of Skyhold, Alanna noticed Hale’s apathetic intrigue. The huntrss’s eyes always observing.

The meeting with Morrigan turned frantic; they rushed into the Eluvian to find Kieran. Soon after, a flash of green illuminated the grounds; its source originating elsewhere in the mountain range. The reopened breach at the Temple of Sacred Ashes required Alanna to follow, and the battle with their enemy ensued. Dragons fought, Morrigan defeated the red lyrium beast. Corypheus demolished with the efforts of Alanna’s party. Green flashed again, and the sky healed. The breach to the Veil and the Elder One destroyed.

Now busy with letter writing, meeting with Orlesian political leaders, Alanna’s duties prevented time to check on Hale. Weeks rolled, and word of her cousin’s temperamental change reached Alanna. When Hale did not seclude herself from the bustling committee, her melancholy faded to jollity. Drinking games with her new comrades appeared to give relief from sadness. Trouble incited with Sera’s pranks gave distraction and though Alanna disapproved, she found a peculiar sense of gratitude for Hale’s uplifted mood. Similar, the Inquisitor suspected Hale found new bedmates amongst the Inquisition party but didn’t request details.

However, news of Hale’s rebound soon included reckless behavior. Drunken disagreements erupted to fist fights at the Herald’s Rest. The brawls, broken up by Alanna’s trusted companions, the Iron Bull and Varric on most occasions. It required Alanna’s attention. She called her cousin to see her the next evening.

A knock on the door preceded Hale ascending up the stairs to Alanna’s room

“What d’you want?” Hale asked as she leaned on the bannister.

Alanna had predicted Hale's guarded behavior, true to her nature. Circles under Hale’s eyes, her clenched teeth and smug frown suggested her foul mood. Standing at the center of the room, a few paces from her cousin, Alanna crossed an arm over her chest, the other rubbed her neck. Uneasy with the circumstances of this meeting, Alanna was certain Hale needed to hear loving words.

“Hale,” her voice crooned, “I worry for you."

Hale rolled her eyes and scoffed. “Don’t. I’ll be- I’m fine.” Her chin jutted, words resonated with defiance.

Alanna heard Hale’s stammer. It revealed her cousin’s pain. The break-up she endured affected Hale with more severity than Alanna fathomed when she spoke ill of the Lieutenant. _Did I do the right thing?_ The question resurfaced for Alanna, unsure in retrospect if suggesting Hale leave the Wardens had been in Hale’s best interest. Regardless, the uncertainty did not change her distrust of the Ferelden Grey Wardens, and expressly Nathaniel Howe for hurting Hale. Hale’s healing from the breakup would have to occur at Skyhold.

“Mar vhenan tel ladana min mya nan’vir.” (" _Your heart won’t heal if you follow this angry path.")_ Alanna sent love the way she knew, in her native tongue despite Hale’s resistance to the language. Hale’s brow lifted, her only reply. Shaking her head, Alanna’s tone grew irritated. “Hale, I won’t permit you starting fights with Inquisition soldiers.”

“Who says I started it?” The huntress snapped, crossing both arms over her chest. “You don’t know what fucking happened.”

“I do, actually.” Alanna mirrored Hale’s demeanor, matching her defensiveness. Her voice rose. “The information I received from those present stated you instigated soldiers and threw the first punch.” With all the Alanna’s companions keeping watch throughout the fortress, the Inquisitor received accurate reports about the incidents. “I have overlooked your pranks and promiscuity, Hale’Harel, but I will not stand for violence.”

“Or what?” Hale barked, her head tilting, taunting Alanna to give an ultimatum. “You gonna kick me out?”

Alanna inhaled, her lips pursed. Rebellious patterns had driven wedges between Hale and the Lavellan clan over and over. Anger acted out in troublemaking even before her father died made it difficult to care about Hale with any consistency.

“You know I don’t want that,” Alanna sighed, growing irritated. Had the pressures of the Inquisition not been looming on Alanna’s shoulders, she may have found more patience for her cousin.

“You sure?” Hale challenged, her brows raising to show doubt. She pushed off the bannister and leaned her weight, preparing to leave the way she came. “You begged me to stay and now you don’t like me being myself. You shoulda known this’d happen.”

“Enough!” Alanna snapped. “Hale, ane din da’lin i’mar ha’el eolasa on’elo ajua. Ar nuven hima mar abelas, mah sul hima ma elitha.” (“ _You are not a child and you are wise enough to know how to act. I wish I could change your sadness, but change is your choice_.”)

Teeth grinding, Hale sneered as Alanna went on in elvhen. Displeased with the news she received, Hale huffed but she didn’t argue. She listened through Alanna’s lecture in elvhen. The young huntress yelled “fine,” then swung around the bannister and stomped down the stairs.

Sighing with relief at Alanna’s aggressive agreement, hopeful that her cousin would correct the inappropriate behavior, she returned to her work. Sifting through mail from various leaders around Orlais and fewer from Ferelden, she came upon a letter from Vigil’s Keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to know what you think! Comments are appreciated.


	20. Fireproof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caoilainn assumes her new role of Commander in Denerim and reads Nathaniel's letter. 
> 
> Trigger warning: Some descriptions of physical withdrawal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being so patient. Thank you for reading. Comments/ kudos are much appreciated.

Nerves sparked from trepidation. On little sleep, Caoilainn stared into the mirror in the armory and strapped on her breastplate. Made a few days prior, the customized armor, embellished with gold marked her as commander. Heavier than the Grey Warden gambeson, pauldrons significantly bigger than the light griffons spaulder she was accustomed to wearing, she had difficulty lifting her arms, made worse by the bulky bracers. A chainmail shirt under the breastplate protected her midsection but weighed her down. Other pieces on her hips and legs added to the burden of armor. Taxed movement, she inhaled, trying not to waddle from the excess of armor as she made her to the training yard outside the palace that morning.

Rows of men and women stood at ease. Disparate from the Grey Wardens Caoilainn led for so many years, their loose formation had denoted less about their lack of propriety than their respect for their commander; the Fereldan army preferred rigid structure. Soldiers snickered in the sea of bodies as she neared, Caoilainn could not identify their faces; her cheeks flushed. With each awkward clink of the armor, she questioned her ability to lead.

 _Your nervousness serves no one._ She chastised herself, shaking off her apprehension as she approached the infantry, most adorned in similar, undecorated armor. Knight-sergeants stood in lines at the front, status marked by white belts, the tips of straps decorated with heraldry. Behind them, helmed men and fewer women filled the remaining grounds of the grassy area, red belts showed their tenure as squires.   

Despite the faceless chuckles, Caoilainn summoned calm and addressed them. “Soldiers!” The familiarity in using this tone did not diminish her nerves. She had pondered how to speak to the army, losing sleep over this first speech. Nevertheless, she pushed through it; her voice rang over the wind through the yard as she paced along the front row. “Ferelden is a proud country! We have overcome obstacles to strive for our independence. We have fought against our oppressors and gained freedom that we defend at all costs. We must strengthen the Fereldan Royal Army and protect the throne carved by those who fought before us.”

A pause, she let her words settle. Pleased with the delivery of her motivational speech, she studied the faces of the knights. The blushing in her cheeks returned when she saw their frowns; she assumed their disapproval. Brow wrinkling, her fist covered her mouth as she cleared her throat. “Where is my first lieutenant?”

Rather than calling the name, she gave the opportunity for the knight to present herself. Caoilainn had the answer to the question: Lady Adalyn Wulff, daughter to the Arl of West Hills. She served under Alistair’s military advisor to lead the royal infantry. But without a face to match the name, the information meant little. Caoilainn’s heart raced in response to silence. Searching the faces of the sergeants, she ordered with calm authority, “Lieutenant Wulff, report.”

“Your majesty,” a voice responded and a broad-shouldered woman stepped forward. Towering over the snickering men around her, Adalyn’s attempt to hold back her grin failed.

Accustomed to others minimizing her position as commander and her triumphs as the Hero of Ferelden by placing more significance on her title as queen, Caoilainn walked to Adalyn before responding. The chuckling crowd ceased. Hands clasped behind her back, Caoilainn’s brows lifted. “Yes.” A pointed smile followed her confirmation, the tight stretch of her lips remained through her reply. “I _am_ the Queen and some call me majesty. But you, Lieutenant Wulff, will call me commander.”

Adalyn’s mouth twitched; she swallowed a chuckle. The men to her sides shifted, grinning at the tension between the two women. “Right…” The pause tested Caoilainn, delaying compliance with the direction. Caoilainn breathed, blinking slowly as she waited. “Commander.”

“Good.” Caoilainn nodded, holding her stance near the lieutenant. She turned to another knight who stood behind Adalyn. “Please lead divisions in field training, strengthening defensive measures. Have them pair up. Lieutenant Wulff and I must discuss protocol.”

The knights' gazes traveled from Caoilainn to Adalyn’s back, expecting a reply from the knight-lieutenant. None came; Adalyn stood unmoving with her back turned. Nodding, the knight-sergeants departed to lead the soldiers in their training, leaving Caoilainn and Adalyn standing alone at the edge of the field. Silent, the commander watched the training commence, allowing the sound of clanking metal against metal and yelling to drown out her conversation with Knight-Lieutenant Adalyn.

“Look,” Caoilainn sighed, looking up to the sizable woman beside her. “I understand unusual circumstances have brought me to lead here, but I require your cooperation.” Standing at least a head taller than Caoilainn, a tall woman herself, Adalyn’s dominant presence lessened the intensity of Caoilainn’s declaration.

“Save it.” The lieutenant sneered down at the commander. “I follow the orders of Lord Baldric, under King Alistair. We’ve led the soldiers well enough for years. You’re unneeded as commander. I’m sure there are places within the palace where your time will be better spent, _your majesty._ ”

Lord Baldric, one of Alistair’s advisors, acted as a liaison between Alistair and his military. Alistair had discussed the army’s transition into Caoilainn’s leadership, with approval from all advisors before confirming Caoilainn’s assumption of the role. Lord Baldric and consequently, Lady Adalyn would have agreed to the change.

“Excuse me,” Caoilainn snapped her reply, furrowed brows appalled by the soldier’s blatant insolence. “I said you will call me commander-.”

“This is not your army,” Knight Adalyn pointed to the practicing field without breaking her glare from Caoilainn. “These are not your Wardens. And we are not your children.” Grimacing, Adalyn’s eyes traveled to the ground at Caoilainn’s feet, returning to the commander’s face. Without another word, not waiting to be dismissed, the knight turned on her heels and walked to the training infantry.

Horrified, Caoilainn’s gaze followed Knight Adalyn as she sauntered away. Never in her years as Warden Commander had a soldier been so barefaced in their rebellion. Even in his stint of animosity, an embittered Nathaniel had followed her orders.

Anger mixed with embarrassment, wide-eyed, her jaw dropped; Caoilainn stared frozen in conflict. Stunned, thoughts fuzzy, she was unable to consider her retort and the opportunity for a reply soon vanished. She caught a breath and hurried back to the armory. Emotion swelled, frustration, regret, and outrage. _I’m the fucking Queen._ Straps loosened, pieces of armor taken off and tossed into the chest appointed to her. The chainmail shirt came next, leaving her in her tunic and breeches.

Caoilainn hurried into the main hall, climbing the stairs to her office, escaping her bewilderment.

Plopping down at her desk, she leaned over the flat surface, propping her elbows and pressing her hands into her hairline. She stared at the empty desk, blinking, desperate to find a strategy to regain control. But nothing came to mind and with Alistair busy in meetings, he couldn’t offer guidance or support.

Their decision to divide responsibilities had been in an effort to protect their relationship. Differentiating from one another, as she had wished, they found their own work. She had not anticipated her poor reception from the Fereldan Royal Army when she selected her new duties. A sigh followed by a longing look to the open door, hoping Alistair might arrive to offer encouragement, the fruitless wish dissolved. She leaned back in the chair and pulled open her desk drawer, removing the letter from Nate.

She had not looked at it since she put it there. Unsure if she should tell Alistair before she read it, and certain she would not approve if he required reading it first, she had left it in her desk unopened. The unlikelihood of an emergency decreased urgency, her plans for the letter simmered as she pondered its probable contents. Despite parting ways with Nathaniel on bad terms, she doubted he would write to criticize or blame her. A creature of habit, Nate’s respect for Caoilainn would sustain. She unfolded the parchment.

 _15 Cloudreach 9:42_  

_Caoilainn,_

_I’m a fool for writing. Forgive me. I seek your guidance on a personal matter related to the order. I fear I’ve made a grave mistake._

_I have strong feelings for Hale. The Inquisitor’s cousin. At the advice of another, I ended my meetings with her when I took your role as Commander. In anger, she decided to stay at Skyhold as a result._

_Caoilainn, I am at a loss. The army has questions about your resignation for which I do not have answers. The scouts do not trust me and morale is down because of my actions._

_What is the consequence of a Warden Commander carrying relations with a Junior Warden?_

_I’m an ass. I miss her. How do I get her back?_

_Can one feel so strongly for another so quickly?_

_Your friend,_

_Nathaniel_

_Did you receive Weisshaupt’s permission before joining the Inquisition? I’ve received no word from the First Warden since we’ve returned._

 

Irritation with him for writing conflicted with empathy for his circumstances. _Nate’s in love._ Caoilainn reread the letter, making sure she understood the intent of his communication. He disclosed more turmoil in this short message than she had ever witnessed of him apart from his discovery about his father’s guilt. Even when they were children, he kept his emotions well-hidden, even from himself. Refolding the letter, she protected his vulnerability, stuffing it back into the desk drawer. She drafted a quick reply.

 

_20 Cloudreach, 9:42_

_Nate,_

_You’re right. You are a fool. I told you to go through Alistair if you need support._

_However, while I’m writing to tell you not to write me, I will give my recommendation._

_It will be easier to seek forgiveness from Weisshaupt than ask permission. If your army is operating, the First Warden is happy. If they come to discover your companion and dislike it, they will decide if it is worth addressing. Worst case, you are dismissed. Is she worth it?_

_If the answer is yes, do whatever you have to. Write to her instead of me, first of all. Ask her to come back. It’s that simple. As is the answer to your other question. Yes. Strong feelings are rarely patient, nor are they maintained without effort. Love requires work._

_No. I’ve received no word from Weisshaupt either. Look into this further. Write to them and if you do not receive a reply, send a team. Something isn’t right._

_-Caoilainn_

 

She folded the letter without proofreading and sealed it. Unabashed and blunt in her reply, she named the feeling Nathaniel minimized; communicating emotion was a foreign language to the new commander. _Poor girl._ Caoilainn sympathized for the young woman, falling for someone so emotionally reserved and far too committed to his work. _Is that what it’s like to love me?_ Parallels between Nathaniel’s circumstances with Hale and Caoilainn’s relationship with Alistair forced her question.

She committed to telling Alistair about the letter immediately after she sent the reply. The absent correspondence from Weisshaupt troubled her more, she needed to consult with him. Unwilling to have him monitor her communications, she set out to find a messenger before talking to Alistair.

***

“Queen-Commander.” A warm timbre from behind acknowledged her with respect, startling Caoilainn as she watched the messenger rush down the great hall in the other direction. She turned to face Alistair, grinning behind her.

“King Alistair,” she bowed her head. A loving smile spread, short-lived as her brows bunched. Eager to rid herself of feelings of guilt for replying to Nathaniel, she sighed, frowning. “I need to talk to you.”

Alistair’s grin faded, lips pulling tight. “I know,” his forehead creased and he nodded. Caoilainn's stomach lurched, worried Alistair knew about the letter before she had a chance to tell him. Taking her hand, he pulled her into a vacant foyer and ushered her to a seat. She followed direction without question, dreading the reason for Alistair’s consternation. “I received word of Wulff’s insubordination from another officer.”

“Oh,” she mumbled, surprised by Alistair bringing up the topic. She assumed she would need to inform him of the events that occurred.

Alistair did not wait for her to form a reply. His hands moved along with his frustrated speech. “That was uncalled for and completely inappropriate. I was this close,” his thumb and index finger nearly touched, “to banishing her, or at the very least discharging her from my army. Then I thought I’d leave that decision for you. You’re the commander now. What do you want to do?”

Caoilainn’s jaw slacked, shocked at Alistair’s combined forwardness and support. It opposed her experiences of him as all too passive, lenient when his applied authority was necessary. Her worries about Nate’s letter dissolved, replaced by her concern for the Royal Army.

“She’s an asset,” Caoilainn said, glancing away, developing her plan aloud. “If I discharge her, I run the risk of losing support of others. Adalyn has a following.” Her gaze met Alistair’s. Stern and decided, she replied, “I can’t wear that blasted armor.”

“Right… yes.” He grinned, eyes squinting with his sarcastic agreement. “Because if you command in the nude, she’ll have to listen. I know I would.” His eyebrows made a suggestive waggle.

The intensity diminished, Caoilainn smirked and rolled her eyes. “No,” she scoffed through her smile. “I need lighter armor. I can’t demand the respect of anyone if I can’t even use my weapons. How do you heavy weapons fighters even move with all that weight slowing you down?”

Alistair considered an explanation and shrugged. “We make each movement count, I suppose.  And that’s true in armor and out.” He winked before his grin left. “I need you to be protected, my Queen. I can’t lose you again and I want you to be safe in case you become, well…” his word trailed off, eyes traveling to her stomach, “you know.” The idea of her pregnant was still intangible and indefinite; he couldn’t state the concern.

“We’ll figure that out when it happens.” Caoilainn’s hand touched his face, brushing against his bearded jaw line. Tender in her insistence, she stated her truth, “my King, there’s more risk of me being hurt because I can’t move in that Maker forsaken armor than injury from an enemy.”

His hand covered hers and squeezed, pulling it from his jaw to his lips. He pressed a gentle kiss inside of her palm before bringing their hands to her lap. “I suppose you have a point,” he sighed, a smile tugging at his lips. “Whatever you need to do. But armor of some sort, please. We’ll save nude commanding for the bedroom.”

“Of course, my King.” The Queen reciprocated a loving squeeze to Alistair’s hand, studying their hands in her lap and recalling her original intent for their conversation. “Alistair, I need-”

“A bath,” he finished her sentence, the twinkle in his eye translating his lustful motives.

“Well, yes” she realized his statement was true. Though she did little on the field that morning, the layer of grime from being under so much armor clung to her body. “But I need to-”

Alistair lifted his free hand, interrupting her reply. He leaned in, fingers dividing around her ear, weaving through her hair. “Let me bathe you.” His husky whisper made a fuzzy sensation of tingling nerves spread from the back of her head; she blinked slowly. “You can continue worrying after. That’s an order, my Queen.”

* * *

 _30 Kingsway 9:42_  

Weeks had dragged to months at Skyhold and the huntress buried sadness beneath anger and pints of alcohol. Detached from the Inquisition’s chaos, she realized their defeat of Corypheus indicated Alanna’s success. Soon after, the activities at the stronghold resumed though with less urgency than before the enemy’s defeat.

Life remained uneventful until the Orlesian Wardens left Skyhold; their purpose no longer needed with Corypheus’ defeat. As their army’s distance grew, an itch grew from inside Hale’s bloodstream. Its intensity magnified over time. The ache boiled, clawing its way from her veins to rejoin the bond on either side of the Frostbacks. It fueled rage; crawling skin gave a constant reminder of deprivation, worsening heartache and stirring the grief for her father. Nights spent shaking, tremors from the fevered chill urged her to release stubborn pride and return to the Wardens- her home and refuge from rampant hunger. _And Nathaniel._ Thoughts of him reaffirmed waiting out the withdrawal. The King of Ferelden had been alone for years, and she had heard of other Wardens leaving the order before their Calling. She was certain the pain would pass.

Spirits lessened the intensity, flooding her bloodstream with alcohol and distracting from the craving for the bond. New bedmates aided forgetting about heartache. But no distraction could prevent the persistent and angry undercurrent; enjoyable nights of booze and banter with Sera and other Inquisition members turned into verbal arguments with other soldiers. Hale sought any chance to fight, venting stored rage on plausible targets. Some of her targets insulted the Grey Wardens and without hesitation, Hale jumped in to defend her brethren. When the fights became physical, Alanna had ordered a meeting.

The Inquisitor called out Hale’s immaturity and in the end, the huntress held her tongue about the burning in her blood. Alanna’s inability to comprehend the appetite circulating through Hale, yearning for the connection to the Grey Wardens and especially Nathaniel ushered Hale’s silence. She made a resentful agreement to control her behavior. Successful efforts continued for weeks, but the novelty of base pleasures soon waned.

“Oi,” Sera chirped, leaning against the frame of Hale’s door. Her tower room near the upper level of the tavern made it easy for the two to reach each other. “Didn’t think I’d find you alone, Ms. Beds the Inquisition.” Bright rays cast through the wood covered window, showing late morning.

Flat on her bed, staring at her ceiling, Hale didn’t roll over when Sera opened the door. The huntress’s drum rest on the floor beside her bed, her fingers of one hand absentmindedly tapped the surface; her gaze locked with the stone ceiling. “Oi yerself. S’just a few… and it’s not like _we_ ever ploughed.” Hale glanced to Sera with a raised brow before looking back up to the ceiling.

“Right, yeah,” Sera chuckled and sauntered into the room. “‘Cause I’ve already said you’re too elfy and I’m not gonna be anyone’s second. I know you’re still stuck on Warden Commander Fancy Drawers.” She sat down at the foot of Hale’s bed.

“Fuck off,” Hale snapped, hitting her drum harder to accentuate her sullen reply.

“Your song’s shit, you know.” Chuckling, Sera stretched sideways across the bed, propping her head up with her hand. The huntress ignored her. “Wanna go for some pranks?” Hale had been retreating, isolating in her room more often than joining Sera in troublemaking.

Unmotivated and enervated, Hale found little solace in petty games. Her body’s aching depleted her energy, no amount of rest seemed sufficient. Easily frustrated, quick to bark cantankerous replies, Hale avoided socializing to save from instigating fights with her friend.

The huntress sighed, preparing to decline Sera’s invitation when an Inquisition messenger knocked on the open door. “Lady Lavellan, the Inquisitor wishes to see you.” She nodded her head to Hale.

“What’ve I done now?” Hale made an irritable snort, her gaze piercing through the messenger expecting an explanation. The messenger gave a timid shrug and mumbled before turning and rushing from the room.

Without waiting, Sera pushed up and extended an arm to help Hale rise. “Good luck, yeah? Whatever it is, I had nothing to do with it.” The two walked together from the Hale’s room into the Skyhold courtyard where they parted ways. Sera pat Hale on the back before the huntress ventured into the main hall.

A soft knock on the Inquisitor’s door and Hale walked in, climbing the familiar steps to reach the room. She started speaking with a raised voice as she neared the top. “What am I doing wrong now?” She turned around the banister and leaned against it when she reached the top.

Alanna stood behind her desk, letters stacked in respective piles across the surface. Creased brows showed Alanna’s concern, studying Alanna’s appearance. The huntress wore only a loose tunic that appeared dirty and breeches; her unkempt hair tied up and the dark circles under her bloodshot eyes showed poor self-care. “Asa'var'lin, ma ama emem in mar era’an.” (“ _You've been locked up in your room._ ”)

Her cousin’s worried expression didn’t prevent Hale’s anger from sparking but she didn’t resist Alanna's use of elvhen. “The fuck, Alanna. What d’you want me to do?”

The debate of leaving Skyhold had passed through Hale’s mind, returning to the wild or visiting Denerim. A flagrant disappointment to her cousin, Hale’s boredom and remorse motivated the desire to leave, but her absence from the bond hampered her willpower, keeping her at Skyhold, far away from Vigil's Keep. The fortress’s plentiful resources allowed her to avoid a decision.

“Ar telem athlan ma min ha’misa, Hale.” (“ _I didn’t call you here to scold you_.”) The Inquisitor shifted on her feet, glancing to the parchment on her desktop. “A letter came for you a few weeks ago.”

The huntress made an annoyed scoff. She stood straighter, flustered by the news. Hale read the sheepish tilt of Alanna's brows as guilt. “And you’re just now bloody telling me?” Before Alanna could reply, Hale took a few long strides to stand across Alanna’s desk. An acerbic smile crept across her face. “Well, jokes on them, innit? I can’t sodding read.”

Alanna’s lips bunched and air rushed from her nostrils. Her gaze glanced from Hale to the ceiling. “It’s from Nathaniel Howe.”

The huntress’s smirk vanished and her eyes widened; her vision tracked to the letter on top of the others on Alanna’s desk. She recognized the griffon emblem on the header.

Recognizing the angry silence and the heaving chest of an upset Hale, the Inquisitor explained in the common tongue. “I didn’t want it to confuse you even more.” Alanna had wrestled with telling Hale about the letter immediately after opening it, but her distrust for the Wardens tainted her reasoning and allowed her to justify withholding the information. “I saw you having such a hard time getting over him.”

“I’m still having a hard fucking time, Alanna!” Hale barked; her lanky arms reached in front of her chest, fingers extended. Body rigid and stretched with her exasperation, Hale covered her face with both hands and groaned.

“I know. Ame abelas.” (“ _I’m sorry_.”) Alanna sighed in embarrassment. She picked up the letter. “I didn’t trust him, asa’var’lin, but seeing your sorrow leads me to believe what he says. I’m going to read it to you.”

“Fucking shite. It don’t matter if you trust him!” Hale screamed and pointed her finger at Alanna. “You...“ she growled in exasperation. Her illiteracy highlighted by this dynamic subjected her to the whims of Alanna and Nathaniel. It emphasized the helplessness from which she ran. With another sigh, she turned to pace away from the desk.

“ _Huntress_ ,” Alanna read the first word of the letter and Hale spun around to face her cousin.

“No, Alanna. Don’t,” Hale whined, shaking her head with her pitiful glare. The huntress wrapped an arm around her waist while the hand other hand rubbed the back of her neck. She clenched her teeth.

“ _I’ve asked your cousin to read this letter to you_. _If you are hearing this, I’m grateful she’s agreed._ _You are missed here by many, myself included._ _There is no easy way for me to explain. I know what is expected of us as Wardens and what my role as Commander is supposed to be.”_

Glancing up from reading, Alanna observed Hale’s pained expression. Her head shook slower. Eyes scrunched, tears pooled through closed lashes; lips squeezed as she endured Alanna's reading.

_“But it’s not enough. I'm not willing to pretend to be content without you. I am sorry for what I said the last night we saw each other. Forgive me, Hale. I lied. Huntress, I -”_

“Fucking prick,” Hale's voice trembled, interrupting Alanna from reading.

The Inquisitor looked up, her cheeks tinged pink from the message she was reading, aware of the loving confession from Nathaniel that followed. Hale sneered back, a few tears slid down her cheeks. She closed the distance to Alanna's desk and, reached across taking the vellum from Alanna's hands.

Face burning, rancorous heat flushing her cheeks, her eyes scanned the parchment. It still smelled of him. Neat handwriting matched his personality; a foreign language, the written word. She didn't understand. Lines scrolled, some crossed and dotted, and they meant nothing to her. All his love, longing, and regret lost in the unfathomable meaning to each cluster of script. Her eyes lingered over the place she assumed said ‘I love you’ and the lovely shape of his name. She felt small, helpless in her incapacity to receive this message from Nathaniel without the need for support.

Anger rushed to her head, Hale’s cheeks burned. Infuriated by the supposed collusion between Nathaniel and Alanna, certain that he had also written to her directly, using this secret language to communicate about her; she ripped the letter.

“Fuck him for writing!” Hale shouted as the pieces of paper multiplied. Stranded words floated to the ground.

Alanna crooned, _“_ asa’var’lin, he loves-”

 _“_ Shut up!” Hale screeched; her fingers spread wide in exasperation free of all remaining pieces of paper. “I'm not a fucking child. I know what he was gonna say. Fuck you too, Alanna. You shouldn’t’ve kept this from me."

Alanna sighed, pressing her palms against her desk. Her voice rose as a hand gestured to the ground, “well, had I known you were going to tear it apart-”

“It's mine to tear up!” Her fists balled and rushed to her sides. Nostrils flaring, she shifted her weight to one foot, preparing to move. “I’m done. I need to get out of this shitehole.” She turned on her feet and hurried toward the stairs.

“Where are you going?” Alanna’s brow knotted, watching Hale flee. Empathetic tears pooled in her eyes, witnessing her cousin’s caustic reaction to her pain.

Hale paused at the top of the stairway to look at Alanna. Her hands rose out, a half shrug referenced the entire stronghold. Hale’s lip curled as she spat out her answer, “away from here. Away from you. Away from…” she looked at the shreds of paper. The anger faltered for a moment, her lower lip quivered, but she huffed to refuel her vitriol. “Away from him.”  


	21. Consequence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathaniel struggles with responsibilities as Warden Commander.

_17 Harvestmere 9:42_

"Commander Howe.” A senior Warden knocked on Nathaniel's open office door. Before dawn, most of Vigil's Keep inactive, the Commander sat at his desk, writing a reply to a correspondent. He looked up from his work to view the man in the doorway. Dark circles surrounded blood-shot eyes; the man's blanched skin revealed his fatigue. "May I have a word?"

"Of course, Otto," Nathaniel put his hand out to welcome the Warden, standing from his desk at the same time. "Are you well?" Walking to the other Warden, a concerned Nate monitored Otto's steps as he walked in the room.

"I've been unable to sleep," Otto explained, slow movements bringing him to sit at a vacant guest chair. "Nightmares, blackness. Commander, it feels like my head's splitting." The man winced as he explained; his hand rose to his forehead.

Nathaniel inhaled; he leaned against his back of his desk and faced Otto. Adjusting to life in Vigil’s Keep as Commander, now knowing his clandestine meetings with Caoilainn had not been secret, Nathaniel attempted to bring order. Volleys of questions worsened, Wardens reporting physical symptoms. Nightmares of inescapable darkness; unique from the Calling-like dreams that haunted the Wardens when Corypheus came into power, joined cold sweats and persistent headaches forcing bedrest upon certain Grey Wardens.

"Please, go to the infirmary. The healers will alleviate your pain and help you sleep." A solution to the man's suffering, the reply avoided the questions Nathaniel was certain would follow.

"I've heard others talking. They blame the disruption and the resignation of Commander Cousland. What if they're right, Commander?" Grimacing from his migraine, Otto closed his eyes to breathe.

Fortunate the Warden's eyes had closed, Nathaniel flinched. The army’s questions about Caoilainn had finally reached Nate with more intensity, many speculating a connection with the impaired Wardens. Nathaniel offered little more than a shrug, having no explanation for the affliction himself.

"As I've explained to the rest of the army, Queen Caoilainn Theirin, as we are to call her now, has reevaluated her priorities after nearly dying in Orlais," his voice drawled, having elucidated this detail to the army many times over. "She decided to return to the palace to spend her remaining years with the King."

The answer had yet to appease troubled minds as the symptoms continued to develop sporadically among Wardens. "Commander Howe, if you had the nightmares, the pain, you'd know. Please, do something." Voice trembling from weakness, Otto pleaded.

A slow nod, Nate's lips tightened. "I'm looking into it, I promise." Helping Otto from his chair, Nate escorted him to the sick wing. Though the affliction had not affected him, Nathaniel's exhaustion prevailed. Overwhelmed with responsibility, the trouble of the weak Wardens underscored his ignorance. Cutoff from the First Warden and the former Commander, he struggled to maintain his composure. His list of inadequacies as Commander seemed to be growing.

Over two months had passed since he wrote to the Inquisitor requesting her help with Hale and seeking information about Weisshaupt. The missing reply led Nathaniel to believe Alanna allowed the Inquisition’s tensions with the Fereldan Wardens to supersede aiding him. He had retired any expectation for a reply.

Thoughts of the Huntress stirred longing and desire. The aching appetite, a deep hunger that gnawed at the psyche of every Warden found Nathaniel as strongly as ever. But the pressure of his new responsibilities squashed any urge for a casual bedmate and harder to admit, the craving for none other than the Huntress killed his drive. Even her vengeance would be welcome to life without her. Caoilainn's warning about Hale's aptitude to seek revenge if he wronged her opposed the young woman's speechless retreat when he had told her to leave. Though his mind lingered on Hale, he tried to subdue hope she would return to him. Frustrated feelings heightened by despair clashed with responsibilities and gradually numbed to defeat.

On his way back to his office, Nathaniel observed Gunnar talking to another Warden in the common room. Glancing up, Gunnar's eyes landed on Nate but he only shook his head in disgust and returned to his conversation. The scouts’ rebellion had abated, but their belligerence had become more covert. The disappointed looks of Damia and Gunnar, the primary culprits, led Nathaniel to believe they saw his dejection. Besides muttering to one another as signs of disrespect when Nathaniel gave orders, they cooperated. To avoid any more confrontations about Hale, Nathaniel let their behavior pass.

Same as any other morning, the officers- the Seneschal, Captain and Lieutenants- met in Nathaniel’s office to go over the day’s assignments for training, missions, and maintenance. Facing away from the attendees as he organized papers, Nathaniel stood at the front of his desk. He spoke before turning around.

“I’ve received requests from two local regions to check out minor darkspawn sightings. It doesn’t sound like abnormal activity.” Nathaniel faced the group, one paper in each hand. Passing them off to Isenam and another Lieutenant, he explained, “Take your pick in fighters, at least one mage in each party. None from the infirmary, obviously. Leave today; pack enough rations for a week.” Both Lieutenants nodded, affirming their receipt of the message. Nathaniel continued the meeting, addressing the full group. “The Marches has requested their troops returned. I want them on their way back to Ansberg by morning.” The officers nodded understanding. “What have you to report?” An expectant look cast upon the group but a knock on the door interrupted the gathering. The door creaked open, a messenger peeked his head in the room.  
  
“Sir Commander,” the young man addressed Nathaniel. “An urgent message from the Inquisitor.” The messenger held up the scroll and bowed his head, waiting permission to bring the letter to Nathaniel.

His breath hitched, Nate cleared his throat. “Don’t just stand there. Bring it here,” he ordered to the young man who rushed to give the parchment over to Nathaniel. The Commander returned his attention to his men, tapping the letter against his leg. “Continue.”

The door clicked, marking the messenger’s departure. A slight furrow to his brow, Isenam’s eyes narrowed at the letter before gazing back to Nate. “Wardens are experiencing different levels of symptoms, and many are blaming the event at Skyhold.”

 _Tell me something I don't know,_ Nate extended energy to keep from voicing the thought aloud. “Who's in there now?” The letter stopped beating his leg. Nathaniel looked to Seneschal Garevel’s ledger.

The Seneschal opened the book and ran his finger along the page, locating the information. “Warden Luca last night, and Damia arrived in the infirmary this morning, both showing signs of weakness and exhaustion.”

Isenam continued, “The healers still can’t identify the cause and insist you seek more information from an external source.” The impassive expression of the elf revealed nothing about his thoughts on the matter.

“I’m already looking into it,” Nathaniel grumbled the same answer he gave each time someone brought this problem to his attention, knowing he had no way to gather information as long as Weisshaupt was unavailable. “Is there anything else?” He lifted a brow, eyeing each officer. They shook their heads in response. “Then you’re free to leave.”

The Lieutenants hesitated, surprised by the unusually short officer’s meeting. Nathaniel glanced to the door behind them as a sign for them leave. Awkward steps took the Lieutenants and the Seneschal from the room, leaving Nathaniel alone in his office. The edge of the letter itched his hand, pressuring him to read. Displeased with his perceived flaw to compulsion, he breathed, easing his nerves before he sat down at the desk. Another inhale and he opened the Inquisition seal and unfolded the parchment.

Unlike the scribbled, nearly illegible cursive he read from Caoilainn, this script flowed. Flowery penmanship gave a more significant reply than he expected from the Inquisitor. He leaned back in his chair to read.

_2, Harvestmere 9:42_

_Warden-Commander Howe,_

_Forgive my delay._

_In all honesty, the Inquisition’s poor relationship with the Fereldan Wardens gave me reservation in responding to you. Furthermore, I did not initially wish to read your letter to Hale. In response to your first questions, the Inquisition has received no word from Weisshaupt. We heard of conflict at the base starting with the Orlesian chapter’s separation from the order- due to coercion from the enemy, but Weisshaupt has not contacted us. The Orlesian Wardens traveled north to return to Weisshaupt shortly after the defeat of Corypheus. My advisors reported a few of the Wardens seemed to be ill and sought guidance from the order. They were joined by the Champion of Kirkwall, Garrett Hawke. I’ve heard nothing from their expedition. If I receive word, I will write you._

_As for Hale, she’d been suffering. I thought reading her the letter would make matters worse. I didn’t trust you, Nathaniel Howe. However, my cousin’s pain only grew and her self-destructive behavior worsened. After much deliberation, I tried to read her your letter day before yesterday. She allowed me to get through most of it before she tore it up, delivering some pointed expletives directed at myself and you in the process. She has since left Skyhold on her own, apparently to distance herself from us. I’m sorry, Commander. Your desire to teach her to read is commendable. Our clan could not get her to sit still long enough to teach her much of anything before she was stranded in Denerim. It seems you will not get the chance._

_I send this message with a level of urgency because I fear for her. Hale seemed depleted beyond ordinary drink-sickness when she departed. I’m concerned for her safety in the wild on her own. I’m calling for more drastic measures in the meantime. I've sent multiple teams to search for signs of her in the Frostbacks with no results. Please let me know if you catch wind of her. I will do the same if she returns, though I find both outcomes unlikely._

_Thank you,_

_Inquisitor Alanna Lavellan_

 

Frowning, Nathaniel reread the script, his eyes focusing on the details about the Wardens. _The symptoms are reaching other chapters. It seems they couldn’t contact Weisshaupt either._ He scratched notes on a separate piece of parchment, questions for Philippa, and information to give Caoilainn. He reread the sections about Hale and then read again. Alanna’s distrust of him came as no surprise. Mildly annoyed with the rationalized overbearing nature of which Hale often complained about Alanna, he sighed. _Good job, Nate._ Cursing himself for thinking the Huntress would allow her cousin to read a letter from him, Nathaniel realized his error as he visualized Hale’s reaction. _You’ve successfully ruined your chances with her. Can you do nothing right?_ Disappointed with his decision, his frown deepened. The permanence of the Huntress disappearing from his life was uncomfortably evident. Despite the heavy sadness, he found an odd solace knowing Hale knew he thought of her.

He sighed and folded the letter, placing it in the drawer of his desk. For now, duty kept him occupied. He needed questions answered before he could reply to the Inquisitor.  

***

A long room stretched along a longer hallway, occupied sick beds lined the center and tables bordered the walls. The patients slept, a magically induced rest keeping them still and peaceful. Their pallid colors suggested the sapping affliction. Nathaniel observed the state of the sick Wardens as he walked to the healer, an apprentice mage emitting magic toward a patient. Shuttered windows kept the daylight from entering the room.

Standing at the other side of the sick bed, Nathaniel waited for the mage to finish his spell. “Thank you, Aidan,” Nate whispered in a habitual effort to not disrupt the sick wing. Strong enough magic kept the patients sleeping, they would not have woken if he yelled. “We needed more healers.”

“Of course,” Aidan gave a weak smile, “an unconscious mage is not very useful.” His glance moved to the patient he stood over, one of Vigil’s Keeps resident healers.

“I don’t understand why this is happening or how we can stop it. It’s only a few now, but if these aren’t isolated incidents, we could lose the whole army.” Nate looked around the room to the sleeping patients, his eyes lingering on Damia _._

“The sleep is helping, Commander. The nightmares seemed to drain them, but we’ve got them well enough rested. They are recuperating but the dreams persist once they leave the infirmary.”

The mage walked to the end of the bed and the Commander followed. Nate voiced his worry, “So how do we stop it?”

“Philippa is in the library looking for something to help. I think she has her suspicions, but she’s been tight-lipped with me,” Aiden explained further, witnessing Nathaniel’s frown deepen with the mention of Philippa. Suspecting Nate knew more than he would disclose, Aidan changed the subject before the Commander departed. “Any word on Hale?”

The question disrupted Nate’s thoughts to talk to Philippa, forming more questions to ask the sorceress about the connection between the illness and Caoilainn and Alistair’s cure. He shook his head to clear his mind, returning him to the unpleasant topic of his botched relationship. “No,” he lied. “But I need to find Philippa now. We’ll talk later.”

The Warden Commander made a brisk walk to the library. Dust floated through the air, the musky scent of old books permeated the room. A secluded area in the main building, floor to ceiling bookshelves filled with volumes of tomes in varying degrees of age and wear covered the walls. Aisles of similar shelving occupied the center and a lone nook with a desk sat in one corner. A single candle burned tirelessly on the surface. The sorceress stood near a shelf with a large book tucked on her hip, open as she scanned the contents. She didn’t look up as Nate joined her.

“What is it, dear? Don’t you see I’m busy?” Her sharp tone chastised the Commander, but a tiny smirk pulled at the corner of her lip.

Nathaniel knew he could voice his concerns forthright with the woman. Her desire to delay the topic any longer than necessary was just as nonexistent as his. “What do you think this has to do with Caoilainn and Alistair?”

“Everything,” Philippa mumbled lifting the book from her side and closing it. She carried it the short distance to the desk and set it down on top of a pile of similar texts. Facing Nate with her hands on her hips, she continued, “It has everything to do with them leaving, Nathaniel. One cannot change a critical element to magic so old without consequences.” The woman’s brow wrinkled, and she looked away. “I had not expected them to be this severe.”

Boldness slipping, Philippa's self-doubt escalated Nathaniel's concerns. He scanned the room for any other visitors, wishing to avoid anyone overhearing before he spoke. “I assume you used blood magic. Doesn’t the negative consequence of blood magic impact the one who loses blood and the one who benefits from the effect?” He had deducted Philippa's participation in the cure. Her absence the morning Caoilainn was healed and her frequent conversations with the former commander explained itself for one who knew what to question.

“Nathaniel!” Philippa made an extravagant gasp and put her hand to her chest, feigning surprise at Nathaniel's allegation.

“Commander,” he corrected, brows raised in subtle amusement, awaiting her retort.

She waved her hand to dismiss his correction and returned her palm to her chest. “I am shocked and appalled you would think I am so willing to haphazardly use such a taboo form of magic.”

“You’re kidding,” Nathaniel’s dead stare showed no investment in her offense. He crossed his arms over his chest.

Philippa gave a dramatic sigh, the smirk at the corner of her lip was more apparent. “Fine,” she quipped, the corner of her mouth twitching, “usually, yes, the use of such magic harms the donor and the beneficiary, and the mage in question risks their sanity. But through the bond we are one and I can’t find the pattern to the damage of this spell. It’s reaching junior and senior Wardens alike.”

 _Hale._ His stomach tightened, fearing the Huntress may already be sick. “Do you have any idea on how to stop it?” Nathaniel glanced to the stack of books on the desk and turned to Philippa.

“Not yet,” she gave an authentic sigh, disappointed with the circumstances of her reply. “I need to find what connects those who’ve had dreams to rule out random happenstance. It will be easier to find the cause if I can locate at least one common variable.”

The limited news gave hope, a potential path to resolution. Nathaniel’s hands reached Philippa’s shoulders. His eyes met hers. “Thank you, Philippa.” The woman nodded a reply and Nathaniel released her. Walking backward, glancing over his shoulder to check his path, he continued, “Please let me know as soon as you locate something. I think Caoilainn would like to know about this. I will also write to the Inquisitor- the Orlesian Wardens may suffer as well, according to the last message I received from her.”

He turned on his feet one stride from the doorway to exit. “Be sure to ask again about Hale,” Philippa sang, smiling from her spot in the corner; Nathaniel froze mid-step. “Witnessing you grieve losing the poor girl is utterly unbearable.”

Nathaniel turned and took a long stride back, flat hands lowered on either side of his frame to signal her to speak softer. Lips parted, preparing to shush her but Philippa interrupted.

“Dear, don’t shush me. And tell Caoilainn I said hello.”

Dumbfounded, Nate’s mouth gaped. Unable to make a concise reply, his finger rose to stop Philippa’s interruption, but the sorceress had already turned back to her books. Confused at the casual dismissal, Nathaniel turned and walked from the library, long strides carrying him back to his office to write to Caoilainn and Alanna.


	22. Skeletons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The letter.

The open field stretched between the Royal Palace and the Drakon River, parted only by the Denerim Street. Palace guards stood at both sides of the field, protecting the Denerim army as they trained that afternoon. Clanging metal, bodies milled as weapons clashed, shields butted against one another. Paired fighters in mock combat labored movements with feigned strikes so as not to hurt one another. Soaked bodies sweating from intense sparring occupied the field. A few soldiers rested, drinking from waterskins, and catching their breath venturing back into training.

“This isn’t the place to be a gentleman, Neal! Block and parry!” Caoilainn yelled to the squire she fought. Her left hand guarded her body with her short blade, she took a lunge to her right, her arm revolved her long sword around to tap the fighter on his unguarded shoulder. “I promise your shield won't break if you use it."

The motions repeated. This time the squire stepped back when she lunged, his shield lifted to impede her shot, pushing her arm out of the way. He took a step to the right, using her extended body against her, gaining a direct swing at her accessible midsection.

“Good man!” Caoilainn hollered as his sword stopped short of her belly. “Yes! I’m out! That’s it! Go practice this with Squire Daniel.” Pointing to one man at the water table, she patted Neal on the back and walked to the side of the field.

New armor fit snugly, a gold breastplate signified her as commander. Lighter chainmail covered her belly, connected by dragonhide leather; etched mabari spaulders protected her shoulders. The flexible materials allowed mobility and protected her more effectively than the Warden gambeson. A light helmet topped her head; she removed it with one hand and pulled a rag from her belt with the other. Dabbing the sweat from her forehead, she watched Knight Adalyn emerge from the crowd and walk to her.

“Commander,” Adalyn gave a respectful bow, then stood at ease across from Caoilainn. “A report on defensive measures: I’ve seen at least a twofold increase in the soldiers’ communication in combat since you’ve joined us. I’d estimate this would reduce injury significantly but I recommend a larger practice skirmish soon to test the effectiveness in action.”

Caoilainn brought the rag to her neck as she replied. “An astute observation, Knight-Lieutenant Wulff, thank you.” Caoilainn gestured to her side for Adalyn to stand next to her. The commander tucked the rag back in her belt and crossed her arms to watch over the army. Lieutenant Wulff followed the direction, also crossing her arms. Beaming proudly at the progress she had made since her first day as commander, Caoilainn reflected on her resurgence.

_The new armor took a week to make, but the ability to use her weapons boosted her confidence. Her motions not encumbered by the excess weight of metal, she strode onto the training field. Blonde hair in a tight braid resting on her shoulder, she held her helmet under an arm._

_Adalyn Wulff and her group of followers stood chatting a few steps away from Caoilainn at the water table. The other soldiers practiced lazy frays with no visible strategy or objective._

_“Wulff!” Caoilainn called, interrupting the First-Lieutenants conversation with no hesitation._

_The discussion ceased and an annoyed Adalyn looked over to the Commander with a sneer. The Knight shook her head and went back to her conversation._

_“Knight Adalyn!” The call came with more volume, many fighters checking the origination of the yell. Not even glancing to Caoilainn this time, Adalyn ignored the Commander._

_Feet planted, frame unyielding, Caoilainn’s hands planted on her hips. With a calm expression, aside from her tight-lipped frown, she yelled again, her words concise and condescending, “Knight-Lieutenant Adalyn Wilda Wulff.” The Lieutenant’s full name carried through the practice field. A few remaining clanks of metal echoed Caoilainn’s shout. “If I must treat you as a child I will do so but I am certain your father would be displeased. He’s in town, is he not? Staying at the Bann of Western Hill’s estate? Perhaps we should visit. It’s been far too long since I’ve seen him.”_

_Adalyn’s jaw dropped mid-statement and her eyes shot to Caoilainn. A few chuckles and muttered comments about the interaction reverberated around the practice field. The Lieutenant gave uncomfortable side-eyed glances to her counterparts to no avail as the snickering continued._

_Eyes narrowed, Adalyn walked to Caoilainn with long strides. The Knight-Lieutenant’s face scrunching in displeasure as she neared, inhaling in preparation to chastise Caoilainn for her yelling._

_“Stand down,” Caoilainn interrupted Adalyn’s movement with an order. “Arl Wulff is in the King’s meeting as we speak. The King, might I add, is my husband. Maybe we should join them?”_

_“No, Ser… uh, Commander,” the Lieutenant stammered. Slouching shoulders, the tall woman’s ears reddened. She muttered in low irritation, glaring at Caoilainn. “You don’t have to bother him.”_

_“Only if you’re sure,” Caoilainn’s voice stayed raised enough for those nearby to hear. Her hands clasped behind her back. “If I remember, he has quite a few amusing stories of yourself as a child. Remind me the nickname he had for you?” The few times Arl Wulff had visited Highever when Caoilainn was a child, he had summoned the attention of the entire dining hall to tell stories about his many children._

_Adalyn’s hands raised and her head shook, imploring Caoilainn to stop talking._

_“Ady, was it? No.” Caoilainn tapped a finger to her lip in thought. “Oh, I remember. It was Daddy’s Addy-Waddy.”_

_Adalyn’s cheeks blushed a poignant tinge of red and she covered her face with her hand. She looked at the Caoilainn’s feet. “Reporting for duty, Commander.”_

_Caoilainn’s hands returned to clasp behind her back. With Adalyn in proximity, Caoilainn stared ahead, unmoved by the tall woman’s overdue humility. “Good. You are not my kin and we share no blood, Adalyn. I owe you nothing should you not show me respect. So, I suggest you act like an adult. As you said, I am not your mother.” Her gaze traveled out to the rest of the army with her final comment. Words reverberating through the massive silence, wide-eyed, blank stares witnessed the Commander’s declaration._

The incident fostered recognition for Caoilainn as Commander of the Royal Army. Soldiers reported with some hesitation, cautious not to upset her, but deferred to her orders. The Commander’s project for the army begun; Caoilainn observed them practice, highlighting weak tactics and missing strategy. When they fought in groups, she observed their lack of cooperation. A factor on which the Warden army depended, their bond permitting the most fluid connection between soldiers, the Denerim army lacked any tactical cohesion.   

Caoilainn had used methods of training to improve the units signaling while strengthening their defensive techniques. The results became observable after a few weeks of implementation, and now that over a month had passed the army’s performance noticeably excelled.

Caoilainn gave orders for Adalyn to continue to lead training for the day while she returned to Alistair. Proud, having already received accolades from her husband about her accomplishments, she made spirited steps into the palace excited to tell him more good news. Without bothering to remove her armor, she hurried to the dining hall where she had agreed to meet the King for lunch after his meeting.

The hall was empty and the kitchen staff reported he had gone to his bedroom after his last meeting. He had not returned downstairs since. Curious about the unusual behavior, Alistair late to everything but a meal, she ventured up the stairway. Their room absent of Alistair, much like the kitchen, carried no signs of the King. Caoilainn prepared return downstairs to look elsewhere but a rustling from down the hall caught her attention.

“Caoilainn,” Alistair’s strained voice called from Caoilainn’s office. “What is this?”

Her stomach dropped and her heart raced. The nonplussed tone of Alistair’s voice made her dread he had found the letter from Nathaniel. Escaping down the stairwell tempted her, an effective delay to the confrontation she was sure awaited. But it served no end in their rebuilding relationship; Caoilainn took vigilant strides to her office.

 

***

Teyrns and Arls from across the kingdom met to discuss the country’s affairs as it recovered from damage left by Corypheus’ supporters and rift demons. King Alistair sat at the head of the table. Chin resting in his palm and his elbow propped on the table, he observed the men bicker over finite details of the nation’s rebuilding. On the rare occasion his opinion was requested, he gave the deciding vote, ending the discussion to move on to the next topic of debate.

“The Inquisition,” Alistair said, reviewing the docket in front of him. His interest captured, he scanned the paper for details, curious of whatever complaints would be reported. “It seems some of you have expressed concern for the organization’s continued assemblage. Tell me more.” Alistair smiled and opened his palm to the group, inviting them to talk.   
“What is the need for the Inquisition now? They’ve defeated their enemy months ago,” Arl Gallagher Wulff voiced first. The man’s thick beard masked the lower half of his face but did not hide his grimace.

“They did a good enough job,” a younger voice resonated through the room. The newly appointed Arl Pace spoke for Edgewood. His region housed Inquisition soldiers when they traveled in from the Frostbacks. “They cleaned those Maker forsaken rifts scattered through Ferelden’s western province.”

“They’re still far too friendly with Orlais for my comfort,” the matter-of-fact statement came from Arl Teagan who sat leaning back in his chair. “We cannot drop our guard with the Inquisition when we consider their cohorts.”

Keen ears listened to the discourse, Alistair nodded to Teagan’s evaluation but withheld vocalizing his opinion. “What do you propose we do about it?”

The answers sounded together. Men clamored to give their opinions at the same time, many supporting distance from the Inquisition and others permitting the Inquisition's assembly until they showed a reason for scrutiny. Those who opposed suggested formal complaint, demanding the disbanding of the order.

Teyrn Fergus Cousland’s jovial tone rang through the rest, “I agree with Teagan. But we’ve no solid ground to make accusations now and to be honest, your majesty,” a half-smiling Fergus tipped his head to Alistair, “after the Inquisition's dismissal of Fereldan allies, it will appear petty to take action so soon after their success.”

Aware of the conflict between Caoilainn and the Inquisitor, Fergus Cousland’s allegiance to the image of the King and Queen was refreshing. Alistair hummed in agreement, a smirk forming on his lips as plans for subtle revenge solidified.

“Then we'll wait. A year? Two, maybe?” He suggested with a casual shrug, minimizing his interest in being an inconvenience for the organization. “We'll keep an eye on them and if they don't disband in the meantime, we'll call for a council.”

With a consensus reached, a meeting to revisit the subject was set for the following year to strategize sending their concerns to the new Divine. If Ferelden’s grievances were received, protocol could escalate as far as an Exalted Council, but the bureaucratic process could take well over another year to reach a verdict on the need for such a high-level conference. Alistair arranged for the Inquisition’s activity to be monitored in the meantime. It brought the Fereldan leaders meeting to a close, all business covered well ahead of schedule.

Pleased with the opportunity to find his wife before they met for lunch, Alistair ascended the stairs two steps at a time. With her training finished, she usually came upstairs to change before continuing her day. He hoped to intercept her before she met him downstairs, eager to tell her about the conclusion of his meeting.

Their bedroom had been cleaned since they had departed that morning; the bed made, dirty clothes gathered to be washed. But the room was empty and the connecting washroom was also vacant. Already a habit formed since they had returned together months ago, he ventured from their shared room to her office. When she wasn’t working, Alistair often found Caoilainn reading or writing in the smaller room a few doors down the hall.

“My love, I have news for you,” his warm timbre sang from the hallway as he rounded the door and entered the room. Unoccupied, the daybed was untouched and the chair at her desk was tucked in. Unopened mail sat on top of the surface. Alistair hummed to himself and shrugged, assuming Caoilainn was stuck on the field with her fighters.

He tightened his lips in a bittersweet gratitude for his wife’s work ethic. The couple had rebuilt their relationship, love prevailed. Each respectful of the others’ routines, differentiated work allowed them to exhibit their strengths without undermining one another. His fears surrounding her unfaithful past were negated by her honesty. Alistair scanned her room once again, sighing in thanks for her diligence as he turned to return downstairs, retiring his plans to meet her before lunch.

But mid-turn his eyes caught on the pressed griffon sealing the top letter on her desk. Alistair’s stomach lurched and his head felt dizzy. His feet carried him to her desk without his control. Dazed, time slowed as he picked up the letter, eyes begging to be proven wrong by what he saw.

 _Vigil’s Keep._ The words written on the parchment identified the source of the letter. Sweating hands distracted, Alistair wiped them on his gambeson one at a time. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath in. _This might be Howe’s first time writing._ Fuzzy thoughts questioned waiting for Caoilainn, but angry doubt won over. _Or maybe they’ve been writing the whole time._

He peeled open the seal. Alistair’s pounding heart amplified as he unfolded the parchment and read the first words. The sound of the door to their hallway creaking open seemed far away. Caoilainn’s boots clicking on the stone floors echoed in the distance. He read the first sentence.

_Caoilainn,_

_I would not ask your husband for relationship advice._

Teeth gritted, Alistair shook the paper and looked up. He caught his breath, sneering as he turned his head, disgraced with the first sentence of the communication proving his fear correct. _This isn’t the first letter._

He heard her steps again, back in the hallway emerging from their room. “Caoilainn, what is this?” Alistair called from her office.

He stood in front of Caoilainn’s desk, her belongings untouched. New mail had been delivered, but an open letter rested in Alistair’s hands. His reddish hair emphasized the angry tinge on his face; his critical glare looked from the paper to Caoilainn. Uncertain of his discovery, she stared back with large eyes.

“You’ve been writing to that bastard when I explicitly told you not to?” His voice trembled as he raised the letter to the air. Knuckles white, his veins protruded on the back of his palm. He shook the parchment to emphasize his point.

 _Damn it, Nathaniel._ Shoulders slouching, she sighed, “Alistair.” Her elbows bent, palms lifted to either side in an expression of her helplessness. She caved her shoulders and mumbled, “I wanted to tell you. I tried.”

“Oh, you tried, did you?” Alistair made a wry laugh, and the letter came to his side. “How hard did you try, Caoilainn? Was that before you decided not to tell me at all?” The Queen stood speechless in response to his interrogation. Alistair’s head turned in an embittered shake. “I can’t believe you.”

 _I’m an idiot for believing her._ All of Alistair’s unresolved resentment rose to the surface and overpowered any shred of empathy, filling his mind with a disdainful amalgam of self-deprecation and animosity.

“ _You_ can’t believe _me_?” Caoilainn scoffed, she pointed to the letter before crossing her arms. Anger flared in desperation to defend herself from Alistair’s chagrin. “You’ve invaded my privacy and opened a letter addressed to me!”

“There’s a difference between privacy and secrecy and you know that. This goes against our agreement,” he tossed the letter on her desk and stared at the culprit that had shattered their hard work on a healthy marriage in an instant. “We made rules.”

Her right foot tapped as she squeezed her body with her arms. Face red from embarrassment, Caoilainn struggled to hold her ground in the argument. Her chin lifted. “That was your rule, Alistair! I told you this would happen.”

Still watching the paper, misty eyes blurred his vision. But his low voice was calm, disappointed. Spite coated each word. “And you agreed to the terms. We made the rules together.” The King’s disenchanted and watery hazel gaze traveled to Caoilainn; he spoke a passing thought. “How long have you been writing him? No, you know what. I don’t want to know.”

“It was one letter. I wrote him back, answered his questions, and reminded him to write you.” Caoilainn refuted, confessing the communication with Nathaniel though she knew it came too late. “I’m telling the truth, Alistair. I went to tell you right away.”

Anger peaked, Alistair lifted a balled fist over her desk and swung down. He stopped before impact, catching his rage before it became destructive. Flexing his fingers, he breathed in meager effort to ease himself. “But you didn’t!” He yelled, “you keep saying you tried but I seem to be missing the part where you told me _anything_.”

Caoilainn’s head tilted back and her lips bunched in consternation. Her frown seemed to sink deeper. “You brushed me aside and insisted we sleep together instead.”

“No,” Alistair snapped his reply and pointed at Caoilainn. “You don’t get to put this on me.” His pointed finger touched his chest. “You’ve had plenty of chances to tell me.”

“Fine,” she mumbled then shuddered an unsteady sigh. Indignant tears pooled in her eyes. Caoilainn shook her head, smiling as calloused words flowed. “You're right. Is this what you want? I should've kept trying.” Her tone softened as she continued to explain. “But I didn't think he'd write back when I told him not to. I've been busy training your soldiers and we've spent most of our time together trying for a baby. It never felt like the right moment to bring it up.”

Since Caoilainn’s cycle had returned over a month ago, the couple had found renewed hope for having a child. The evidence of her body functioning suggested the same occurred internally for him. Health another element in favor of the couple’s reunion, helped their intimacy flourish as their relationship strengthened.

Alistair remained silent, glaring at Caoilainn after her repeal. A quick exhalation through his nose reflected the relaxation of some of his features. His shoulders lowered, the crease in his brow eased. They stood steps away, neither desiring to be close to the other in this state of contention.

Timid, she understood his silence as a tolerant reception of her explanation and continued. “Just because we aren’t bonded to the order doesn’t stop us from being Wardens. Alistair, we still have responsibility to them.”

His lip curling into a derisive sneer, Alistair nodded exaggerated understanding. Her statement triggering his resentment again. “Oh! So you’re saying I have a responsibility to aid that conniving snake with his relationship with his ill-mannered girlfriend because he’s the new Commander of the Grey?” His sarcasm dissolved to disgust. “That girl’s half his age.”

“No,” Caoilainn rolled her eyes, emitting every effort to keep from reciprocating Alistair’s derision. “I’m saying that’s not all he wrote about. But I also wanted to help him with Hale. They’re an unusual couple, but he loves the Lavellan girl.”

“And she’s Lavellan?” His disparaging laugh reverberated through the room. He replied with scornful amusement. “My that man has a taste for forbidden property. What’s it like to be replaced so quickly, Caoilainn? I couldn’t do it but he sure did. With a younger, more lithely elven lass, no less.”

“Stop!” The Queen yelled, lifting her hand into the air to interrupt his insults. She paused, catching her breath. Her teeth clenched as her chest heaved with hurt and angry emotion. A barely audible quiver carried in her voice as she continued. “That is inappropriate, Alistair. You will not talk to me like that and I am not your property.” The King fumed in silence, a few slow blinks his only reply to her demand. “I love you, Alistair. I should’ve told you and I made a mistake. I’m sorry.”

Cautious steps brought her to Alistair. She stood before him, avoiding physical touch out of respect. Her eyebrows relaxed, a gentle plea for Alistair’s understanding. “I think something is wrong at Weisshaupt. We need to help Nathaniel.“

Alistair’s hands raised and hovered over Caoilainn’s shoulders. A glimmer of his pacified expression broke through his hardened features. Hazel eyes gazed into her silver and he spoke, “I-” He sighed in defeat, his hands relaxing back down to his sides. Alistair blinked and looked away. “I can’t look at you right now.” Sidestepping Caoilainn, he left her office without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry!!! *wails* But please let me know what you think!!


	23. Feral Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW. Messy NSFW.
> 
> If you would like a playlist: [Feral Love](https://open.spotify.com/user/etaeternum/playlist/7APOEyLXI6F5H6fSYtbkfv)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "It's 6776 words, but boy do they bang." This chapter means so much to me so I was stressing about getting it right. I hope you like it.

 

_19 Harvestmere 9:42_

_Apathetic stares faced Nathaniel. He had called the difficult group of scouts to his office that evening, excluding Damia who was still on bedrest and Isenam and Val who had ventured off on a mission a few days prior. An intervention of sorts, he ignored the scouts' eye rolling and listless stares, knowing they would appreciate aspects of the news he prepared to give them._

_“As you know, we are missing one of our own,” Nathaniel started, cutting to the point. “The junior Warden Hale Lavellan, remained in Skyhold when we departed. Her desertion of the order resulted from a miscommunication and the junior Warden will not be held responsible.”_

_The_ Wardens’ _foreheads all raised, and they passed sideways glances to each other. Lisbeth broke the silence with an accent like Hale’s. “Yeah ‘cause some chicken shite commander lost his nerve.” The group snickered agreement but none dared escalate bullying the surly Warden Commander._

_Nathaniel’s lips tightened into a frown, but a smirk pulled at the corners of his mouth. His fist covered the broken smile, and Nathaniel looked away as he cleared his throat. “Well fortunately, he has seen the error of his ways and takes responsibility.” Aware they knew what had happened between him and Hale, he sacrificed his pride by calling them to his office. He permitted Lisbeth’s jab without a reprimand. "However, Hale has since left Skyhold and her whereabouts are unknown. With Wardens at risk of sleep deprivation and resulting weakness, I have decided our small group is departing tomorrow to search for her.”_

_“If she doesn’t wish to be found, she knows how to cover her tracks, Commander,” Saeris commented his concern. “It will be like looking for a raven in the dark.”_

_“It’s true. But we are good trackers and she’s one of our own. We have to try even if it means relying on nothing other than the bond.” The answer was final, and the group nodded in return, all in agreement with Nate’s conclusion._

_Nathaniel laid out a map and marked the path the group would follow the next day. The mission to search the foothills of the Frostbacks along the northwestern region of Ferelden would be quick with such a talented group of scouts. Details confirmed, Nate clarified that Aiden would join in case one of them became sick. The scouts set their time to meet the next morning._

Nathaniel had met with the Warden Constable the night prior, giving his orders to mind the keep while he left for this excursion to find Hale. Waking before daybreak, he dressed in the dark. Arm reached through sleeves of the black tunic he pulled over his upper body, leather breeches donned and fastened. Absent minded, fleeting thoughts of the quest upon him flickered through Nate’s mind. _What if we can’t find her?_ He tucked his shirt in halfway, another question tugging his attention away from the task. _What if we do and she won’t see me?_ He closed his eyes and took a breath to steady himself. _What if she’s hurt?_ The last thought stung, sparking distressing images uncharacteristic of the perseverant Huntress: lacking the vitality he loved, and found weak, or worse, dead.

He shook his head to clear the uncomfortable picture. Daybreak approached, dawn providing a glimmer of hope with Hale. Quiet steps carried him to the water-filled basin in the corner of his room. He lit the lantern resting on the corner, the light source shining short rays into the dim space. After washing the trepidation and sleepy haze, he dried his face with a towel. The door clicking open did not distract him; scouts would arrive at his office soon. He assumed the visitor an overly punctual Warden.

“Hold your breath, Liz,” Nate answered, assuming he knew the expeditious guest. “Call me a chicken shit commander again and you’ll be mucking the stables.”

Completing his hygienic routines at the basin, he waited for her to reply and make her presence known. But the lock turning after the door closed caught Nate's attention. Spry senses tuned to sounds of movement; the faintest scent of pine and wildflowers tickled his nose. Cautious, Nate turned around to face the door, eyes narrowing to sharpen his sight.

A shadowy figure faced him, hidden in the lines drawn by the lantern excluding light from the corner.

“I ain’t here ‘cause I need you,” the body declared.

Rough edges to the familiar voice made Nate’s heart flip. A breath followed the statement. _Her_ breath, livid and laced with the fiery energy he loved. Unwilling to hex what might be a dream, Nate did not speak. With his eyes peeled, he aimed to identify the recognizable curves of the Huntress. Hale’s lean and lengthy limbs, modest hips, and the long locks of hair that opposed the shaved side of her head, all features of the woman imprinted in his memory.

A slow step forward, he absorbed the sight, her face still shadowed by the limiting light. She stood in an oversized linen tunic and her usual leathers. Clean, unharmed, she looked well besides loose stitching in a seam above her knee. Her time traveling had been well for her.

The image of Hale pleading for him to listen and return the loving confession she offered had repeated in his mind everyday since she fled.

_“...I’m Warden Commander. We won’t be able to hide this anymore… I have to care now.” All excuses for his cowardice, choosing work over their connection, and still she professed._

_“I sodding love you.”_

_"Don’t. That will only make this harder.”_ For both of us. _His bold faced lie murmured with remorse, “I don't feel the same.”_

All the things Nathaniel wished to ask, to tell her, professing his respectful adoration for whatever connected them beyond the bond fell short. No words sufficed, and he blurted the first question that came to mind.

“Is that my shirt?” The organized Commander had realized a missing article of clothing when he packed from Skyhold, but change and responsibilities had lessened the priority.

“It’s warmer than mine,” she muttered, stepping to stand before him. Looming regret returned to his awareness as he studied her anger. The lantern illuminated her face and defined features came into view. Delineated lines of her vallaslin, and creases of a glare marked her face. Shadowed green eyes with yellow tendrils weaving through the irises surrounded large pupils and met his inquisitive gaze. Red rouged lips frowned. Her hands held in fists at her sides as her weight leaned on one foot.

Nate recognized the blatant distrust radiating from her posture. He reached out his hand to frame a pointed ear, lacing through her hair. “Hale, I’m sorr-”

A lackluster and conflicted attempt at a blow, Hale’s balled fist rounded idly toward his face. Poor form made the act easy to intervene. He grabbed her wrist with his free hand and she huffed, a teary glare piercing him.

“Don’t touch me!" She cursed, yanking her wrist from him and leaning away from his hand. Longstanding pain from abandonment magnified by Nate’s betrayal did not resolve with one caress. She could not deny the revitalizing properties from the contact of Nate's skin, or his soothing smoky tone resonating tingles on the back of her head, but it did not dissuade her resentment. "You’re a damn fucking prat, Nate!”

“I am,” he agreed, keeping his hands at his sides. The desire to hold her raced through his bloodstream, a gnawing urge not unlike the bond, but unwelcome contact would not soothe the lovely and volatile creature. “And I would take what I did back if I could.”

Umbrage deceived by his apologetic words, Hale’s heart pounded and her chest heaved. Furious and in love, torn between both emotions she could do nothing but glare. Skeptical of his honesty and unwilling to fall for another lie, she searched his eyes for the truth. Deep grey pools stared back, speaking understanding and remorse.

She sighed, her shoulders slouching. “Don’t fucking lie to me again.” Her raised voice lessened to a whine and her clenched fists released along with her wrath.

“Never,” Nathaniel assured. Patient intrigue waited for her reaction.

Words failed and craving conquered reason. She closed the remaining space between them. Her arms draped over his shoulders, using him as leverage. Light and limber, she made an assured and easy jump. Reading her cues, Nate's palms gripped with her thighs, sliding to the trained rear he had fantasized about for months. Her strong legs wrapped around his waist. The Huntress’s hand weaved into his hair and the other arm rested on his shoulder, cradling his head.

Hale gripped his unshaven jaw and pulled his mouth to hers. Their lips collided in a fevered kiss. Chapped from her time in nature, unsmooth lips put welcome pressure, forcing his to open and let her in. Her tongue slid against his and beckoned him to reciprocate. Pent longing and remorse released, the kiss communicated his apology.

 

 

 

 

Art by [xla-hainex](xla-hainex.tumblr.com)

 

 

 

Sharp teeth bit down on his lower lip, hard, sparking a pleasured groan. His throbbing flesh served as a gifted reminder of the Hale’s existence and not the product of a wishful apparition. He absorbed the moment: the sight, scent, and sound of her on him, holding onto his frame with raw grace; a pleasant contradiction to the months he spent alone. Overpowered by the Huntress’s feral energy, Nate welcomed her vigor.

A gratified grumble reverberated; the Huntress’s fire revived his dormant Warden appetite. He took a few measured steps toward a wall, mindful of the lovely creature’s affectionate demands. A painting rattled as he shoved her against the small slot of space between the artwork and a bookshelf. She groaned; a fraction of her breath escaped at impact. But with a gasp, Hale’s arms wrapped around his neck, hugging his face into her neck. The ridge of the Commander’s nose traced the lengthy curve, sliding up into her hair, breathing her in. Snarling, he took the skin of her neck into his teeth. The woman's healthy blood flow streaming through her artery pulsed against his tongue.

With a moaning growl, Hale’s nails dug into his scalp as her head tilted back. Nate took the invitation, releasing his jaw. Invoking a purr from the Huntress, his nose glided along the center of her neck and up the bottom of her chin, followed by his parted lips. She returned her mouth to his for another kiss.

A knock on the door interrupted their moment. “Commander, are you all right in there?” Gunnar called from the hallway. “We’re scheduled to depart now.”

Nate’s eyes darted to the windows. Dawn had broken to a dull, grayish morning outside the slatted shades. Keeping eye contact with Hale, he called out his reply. “Our quest to find Hale is… um,” he stammered, certain of the backlash he would receive from the scouts on the other side of the door, “postponed.” If the scouts knew she had returned, they would insist on seeing her themselves and Nate wanted her to himself a little while longer. The thought of Damia's status in the infantry did not cross his mind.  

“Told you he’d lose his nerve,” Lisbeth grumbled audibly followed by something that sounded like, “pussyfooted piss ant.”

The Huntress kissed Nate’s jaw, influencing his eyes to close.  

“Commander,” Ashiwyn said with a more compassionate than her colleagues, “we shouldn’t delay any longer. If she’s fallen ill-”

 _I don’t think the young hunter is ill._ Nathaniel chuckled as he felt Hale’s teeth tenderly nibbling his ear, her breath tickling sensitive skin. “Our plans have changed. We will reconvene tomorrow and I will be unavailable until lunchtime. Ow!” Hale bit his neck, pinching his flesh between her canines. Hissing, Nate furrowed his brows and pulled his head back to scold her for the distraction. When his eyes fell on her enlivened glare, he smiled and corrected aloud, “make that the rest of the day.” With the Warden Constable already prepped for commanding the Keep during Nate’s arranged absence, his truancy would not harm the order.

“But Commander,” Gunnar voiced. The din of confused murmurs erupted along with his reply.

“ _Say it to my face_ ,” Hale whispered in Nathaniel's ear, following the order with a kiss on the corner of his mouth. Her digits combed his hair near the base of his neck.

Nathaniel’s tone raised, deliberate with his final reply to the scouts, “I said our plans have changed. Oh,” he sighed. Before the scouts dispersed, the wild woman tugged his hair. The puzzled chatter from outside the door faded down the hallway as the scouts walked away, leaving Nathaniel with undivided attention for Hale.

One hand squeezed his cheeks to hold his gaze with hers. “I want you to say it to my face, Nate. _”_ Hale required him to say what she could not hear read by her cousin; what Nathaniel couldn’t say the night she left.

He assumed he knew what she wanted to hear. “Hale. Huntress, I,” he took a deep breath, gripping his hands tighter on her buttocks. Her hand lowered from his face and rested on his chest as he altered his stance, lifting her higher on his torso. A perfect view of the lovely creature he had craved. Now she clung to him in fervid anticipation of his reply. She held her breath and Nate’s gruff tone continued, “I would like my shirt back.”

“Fuck you,” Hale scoffed. With a playful but irritated shove, she rolled her eyes relaxing the muscles on her legs and engaging her upper body. The lithe and annoyed Huntress shifted her weight to jump off him.

But Nathaniel held tight, leaning the other direction to counter her movement in a quick sweep. It returned their eye contact and in the moment before she looked away, he admitted, “Hale, I love you.”

Hurried words rolled of his tongue. Unfiltered and unrestricted by pressures of position, he told her the truth. Wide green eyes and flushed cheeks faced him. The pink tinge traveled up to her elegant ears.

“I know,” she said. The tip of one canine tugged her bottom lip as the Huntress closed her eyes. She filled her lungs with air, a steadying breath to stabilize as warmth covered her, honing into the unique and tingling bond she experienced with Nathaniel.

Another squeeze on the Huntress’s muscular curves summoned her attention. A worried thought returned, and Nate broke her reverie. “I am truly sorry.”

Her body tensed. Despite her adoration for the scratchy vibrations of his voice resonating through his chest against her belly, his admission of guilt stung. It reminded her of the pain she endured when he ended their relationship and her weakness when she fled the Warden camp.

She nodded acceptance and with an exasperated huff replied, “I was right mad for leaving.” Smiling with a lifted brow, Nate gave a playful nod and kissed her forehead; annoyed his agreement, Hale rolled her eyes but she didn't resist his affection. Squeezed between the wall and Nate limited her mobility but with free arms, she inched the shirt off and tossed it over his face. “There’s yer damn shirt back, old man.”

Blinded by his own apparel, he snarled and shoved Hale back into the wall. The bookshelf shook, a loose book falling from the shelf. With the Huntress adequately pinned, he released his grip of her body. Her legs locked, holding tight to his midsection. Nate pulled the shirt away from his face, revealing the glimmer of mischief in Hale’s eyes.

“I’ll make you pay for that,” he growled, taming his smirk and hiding his weakness to her disobedient nature.

Her lips pursed in expectation of a kiss and Nate requited. Not a moment later, Hale’s hurried hand tucked under his arm, sliding between their pressed bodies. She tugged his shirt out from his breeches and he helped her remove the article of clothing and tossed it on the floor.

Hungry eyes feasted on Nathaniel’s upper half. Lean but well trained, a toned body accented with scars radiated warmth. Inspired and ready, she untucked her binder. Layers upon layers of restricting fabric loosened each time she circled the band. Nate watched, appreciating her tan skin, darker than when he last saw her, likely from her time spent traveling, stretching along her thin frame; a pleasing contrast to his own fair complexion. With the last layer, her binder joined the other clothes, and then she unfastened her bra and let it fall to the ground. Clothes dismissed for their shrouding qualities counter to the couple’s pursuits.

Eye level with Hale’s breasts resting over her muscular ribcage, his calloused digits surrounded smooth flesh. Nate pawed, remembering the shape of the malleable weight in his palm.

Her back pressed to the wall, she watched his pupils dilate as his hand contacted her skin. His swelling bulge against her opposed his steadfast discipline, translating his sordid intent. Wide spread fingers grasped her and his tongue extended. Open mouthed, his pointed tongue dragged along the bony bumps of her sternum. The Huntress squealed, grabbing his hair as his mouth moved, tongue spread to lick large circles on her hardened nipple.

The taste, earthy and sweet brought a smile to his face. He closed his eyes to savor the sensitive tissue. And she watched him, restricting giggles as he made exaggerated movements over her tender skin. The aching heat in her legs teased, but the sight entertained her: a hungry Nate satisfying his appetite.

“Did you miss me?” Hale asked, grinning.

Nathaniel gave a hurried grunt of agreement without diverting from her breast. But the question settled in, and his motions slowed to a stop. A deep breath grounded, his steady timbre returned.

“You have no idea.” He followed the answer with a kiss, nibbling her lip before he inquired. “Did you think of me?”

She shrugged, glancing to the ground. “A little.” The smeared lipstick grin pulling at her lips belied her dismissive reply.

Emotionless flings with Inquisition members were failed attempts to quell the void left when Nathaniel ended their relationship, worsened by being without her comrades. After leaving Skyhold, her time in nature provided opportunity to think. Traces of the taint still thrived in parts of Ferelden, leeching off the earth. It satisfied her need for the bond. The fevered chill declined; her blood clawing to rejoin the order lessened in intensity. But her confused, loving, and resentful thoughts about Nate never ceased, despite her best efforts.

Green eyes traveled from the floor to Nate’s desk, then back to him. Her eyebrows lifted, a flicker of movement spoke multitudes about her intended uses for his workspace as she nodded her head in the direction from which she glanced. Nate’s hands resumed their place on her rear and he carried her to the desk with careful steps.

Not accounting for distance and distracted by Hale’s love bites wandering his bare chest and shoulders, Nate's knee crashed into the back of his desk. He cursed, plopping Hale on the flat surface.

A burst of laughter escaped Hale and her finger rose over her mouth, attempting to shush both of them. “Quiet, old man, or you’ll call the whole sodding Keep!” She hissed, giggling as long fingers found the laces of his pants.

Nate grinned, watching her proficient digits make quick work undressing him, “you have no room to shush me and if I remember correctly, you are far louder than I, _my lady_.” His leathery tone taunted.

Snorting, Hale shook her head though not arguing the fact. Knowing motions, a playful routine, Hale slid his pants down his legs with Nate’s help. Greedy fingers carefully removed his smalls from over his hard member, freeing his shaft and gaining access to his balls. Her tongue slid over her bottom lip before pulling it into her mouth.

She licked her hand with a generous tongue and grinned up to him. Digits nearly enclosed the shaft, her middle finger reaching toward her thumb, making a tight, lubricated squeeze. The length of hot flesh, hard with want traveled inside her full palm. Stroking motions built, her hand knowingly gave soft twists and pressure as it guided along him. He smiled back enamored with the spectacle of the eager Huntress providing delightful sensation. She glanced up to him as she worked, pulling him closer with a gentle tug.

“Hold on,” his hand found her wrist, an affectionate grasp, slowing the momentum of her strokes. Hunger stirred by reunion recalled his desires. “I want to taste you.”

Her gaze softened, the words melting her impish demeanor. The tips of her ears flushed.  A deep inhale and she calmed the excited flutter in her belly.

“Good thing we got all day then,” Hale flirted, still holding his member. She leaned over. A kiss preceded a tingling bite to the arm that held her wrist, hinting for him to release. Nathaniel obliged, smirking at the woman’s determination and postponing his desire to make her writhe in pleasure in favor of letting her have her way.

His hand barely loosened on her wrist before hers slid to his base. Red lips to his member, loving and erotic intention applied with her warmth. A chuckling sigh sounded, Nate closed his eyes as the Huntress guided him into her mouth. Head pressing against the roof of her mouth kept sliding. Copious spit eased the transition as the woman’s talented tongue welcomed him into her mouth. She guided him to the back of her throat, elongating her neck to allow him room.

Nate groaned, opening his eyes to observe. His hand tucked her hair behind the point of her ear as he watched her move along him from where she sat on the desk. Well lubricated back and forth motions became messy. Her lipstick dragged along him. Hot saliva dripped from her sealed lips and she caught the excess moisture in her free palm. Her wet hand reached past his shaft and cupped his tight scrotum. Mouth full of Nate, Hale giggled, vibrating her lips along his member. On the upper end of the sucking motion, her mouth released from his length. Lips smacking she wiped her mouth with one hand, still cupping his raised balls with the other.

The glint of mischief returned, she smirked up to Nate. “S’been a while?”

He lifted a brow, sighing again as he enjoyed her crafted handling. “It has.” He made the honest confession with an even tone. Using his hand lacked appeal while she was away and the much-needed sensation of another’s touch heightened his arousal. But her question sparked his own curiosity about her adventures at Skyhold. “What about you?”

Straight-faced, she challenged him, “what d’you think?” Without waiting for a reply, she took him into her mouth again, increasing the intensity of her action.

 _Silly question,_ Nate thought, letting go of the foreign and faint tendrils of jealousy invading his mind and threatening his closeness to the generous woman on his shaft. Nate shook his head, a heavy exhale rushing oxygen from his lungs as she applied pressure, massaging his balls as she sucked. The quick building of need forced him to close his eyes and just as he did, her wet fingers parted the space between his legs. Her thumb and pinky on his thighs directed her middle finger to his perineum. A sharp breath in, Nate hummed agreement. Excited satisfaction sounded in reverberating tones, relaxing his senses as Hale slid her finger to the tight aperture, tense from their time apart. She fingered the surface, awakening nerve-endings to her touch.

Her mouth distracted him. The graceful slide of her tongue along his length prompted him to plunge further in her velvety mouth on the next rotation. Dedicated hands fondled genitals and Nate gripped her hair remembering to breathe as she escalated. Her middle finger penetrated the tiny passage, venturing in just a knuckle. Uncomfortable from one perspective and enjoyable in another, he gripped her hair harder as he licked his lips. His thighs tightened, heels planting firm into the ground. Extending all effort not to thrust harder into her mouth, he sustained the added stimulus. The lubricated digit pushed from her first knuckle to her second and held until he accustomed. Salivated suction from the depths of her throat appeased tension until she pushed further. Her finger curled, caressing bulbous tissue of his interior, provoking a groan.

“Fuck.” Nate's hips bucked and hand steadied Hale’s head. Prepared to release far earlier in their day’s endeavors than he had expected, Nate made quick plans to occupy time using their stamina while the pair waited for him to grow again.

Hale held on, tasting the initial hints of his ejaculation’s warm and bitter flavor. Purposeful, her hand moved from his scrotum to his base, directing his length where she wanted. Rhythmic pressure pulsed from the middle finger within him. Groaning her name, Nate used her shoulders for balance. His member throbbed and Hale opened her mouth. Her head tilted to make room for his climax. Summoning his eye contact, an arched brow and engaging eyes translated her devilry. And he stared back, captivated by her immodesty and inclination to the obscene. Nate shuddered her name, his toes curling in undisciplined appreciation. Viscous fluid came in chaotic expulsions, pumping onto her tongue, dribbling down her chin and onto her chest.

Tongue extended, she gave a toothy open-mouthed smile, and carefully removed of her digit. Nathaniel chuckled, sighing as he returned his awareness to the rest of his body’s sensations. His loving hand cradled the side of her head and he kissed her forehead, expressing gratitude for the vulgar fantasies he'd never dare request but Hale intuitively brought to life from her own desire. With another breath, he let go, kicked his pants off and went to fetch a damp cloth and a glass of water from near the basin for Hale. She grabbed both, dabbed fluid from her face, and drank the entire glass. When she set the cup down, she returned to wiping down her skin.

“Watch your head,” Nate directed, not waiting for her to finish. He grabbed her ankles. Head raised, she kept cleaning herself, interested in Nate’s objectives but leaving her limbs pliable to his guidance.

He lifted her legs, forcing her to lay on her back. Determined hands found the laces of a boot, eyes traveling from his mission to unclothe her to study the Huntress herself. Amused but compliant for whatever Nate had in store, and having finished cleaning herself, Hale lifted her other leg straight in the air. She untied her boot as he finished with the other, mischievous glances stolen in silence as they worked to undress her. She unfastened her breeches and relaxed back down, shimmying to slide off her pants. Lifting her hips, she let go when Nate took over, pulling the leather breeches from her legs and tossing them to the rest of their clothes followed by her small clothes.

Long, bare legs stretched to him. Smooth, save for scattered scars gathered from years of adventures in the wilds, and marked with a few simple tattoos collected between her time in the city and time with her clan. His favorite tattoo was a crude arrow that ran along the outside of one thigh.

He gave admiration for pleasant details he had missed about the Huntress: the shape of her bare body, tall for an elf and toned. Full breasts with the band removed and narrow hips; she complimented his lean frame.

Eager to hear her unrestrained moans and crass exclamations, he brought her ankles over his shoulders as he moved closer to the desk. With her knees over his back, he leaned forward. Her upper back rested on his workspace and her rear against his chest. Reminiscent slick folds faced him, and he breathed her in, tempted by her heat's invitation. But discipline won over ardor. He wanted to make her wait. A bristled jaw brought tender lips to kiss the inside of her thigh.

Hale squirmed, her back arching tiny pulses with each tickle of his facial hair. The feeling sparked hungry nostalgia for his mouth’s experienced exploration her heat. None of her temporary escapes in her time since him, and not even Damia thrilled her as he did.

Kisses became soft bites, and she giggled, wriggling with excited and eager waves. _Such a sodding tease._ The thought fluttered her mind, recalling Nate’s dedication and patience all as means to torture her. She realized he picked this position for a reason, to watch her. Nate had full view of the length of her torso from where he stood between her legs. And he relished the sight: watching her breasts move each time her body shook, her expressions communicating the effectiveness of his methods.

Closer to the center, gentle bites became sucking and his tongue traced long lines along her tender tissue. Hale’s sounds changed from helpless giggles to gasps, expletives expressed in organic and unrefined authenticity. Nate smiled, pleased with the product of his effort. He transitioned lines to circles, tasting her skin for the precise bundle of nerves throbbing for him.

Gentle flicks found the target and Hale purred, a breathy, rolling moan erupting from deep within her belly. _That sound,_ Nate had missed it: the wild woman’s range of raw responses to her body’s elation. Nourished by both her flavor and response, he responded, sucking the reactive nub.

“Fuck me,” she groaned. One hand pressed into the wood to lift her hips higher. The other reached behind her head to grab the lip of the desk.

 _Gladly._ Nate laughed into her heat, amused by her cursing. He stole a glimpse of her mouth for his own pleasure. Smeared make-up surrounding her lips, open wide and panting. But his gaze traveled up to hers and he realized the Huntress stared back, frustrated in arousal. The clever angle of one leg brought her flexed toes to stroke the back of his head with her foot, attempting to bring his face closer. Another laugh hummed, goading her impatience.

“Nate!” She whined, desperate for him to sustain steady contact. Frantic, frustrated with drive for him, she bit the inside of her arm extending overhead and pulled the skin as a successful distraction from his torture.

Gluttonous lapping started against the hooded bead. His nose pushed surrounding skin, exposing more nerves. With a grateful moan, Hale's belly tightened.  

A large, rough hand slid up her belly to knead the plump flesh of her chest. The shape satisfied, round and full, but his twisted urge to tease compelled concentrated attention to her nipple. The dense tissue of the darker skin beckoned for biting, but pinches sufficed, as his mouth was busy.

Observing Hale in bliss, shaking as he manipulated her sensitive spots, he added another stimulus. His free hand found her entrance, the wet and eager core aching for anything of him. The intimate location provoked with languid circles with his middle finger before he slid the digit in. A low moan escaped her. Teeth bared and body writhing with frustrated want.

“Nate! Nate! Nate!” She whimpered both charged with arousal and overwhelmed with another source of stimulation.

Her hips rocked an entranced tempo along his finger and against his tongue. The consistent contact building her aching, sharp tingling spreading from her core, near to burning with desire for this man. Her thighs tightened. Nate felt her abdominal muscles under his arm engage. She locked her eyes with his and froze, vibrating with ardent provocation. Time slowed and Nate watched her finish in awe. Her body cycled through intoxicated waves, continuing as long as he maintained the source of her body's inspiration.

The climax lasted for minutes, seeming to have no end until it finally ebbed. Orientation regained, along with her control of quivering limbs. Nate laid her back onto the desk, her legs coming off his frame. She took advantage of where he stood, wrapped her legs around his waist, and pushed off the desk with a jovial growl. Kissing continued. Twirling tongues battled each striving for control as Nate stepped to his bed. Warden stamina instigated lusty banter.

Strong hands gripped her waist. Indulging in her vibrant energy and joining in the game, he tossed Hale’s light frame onto his mattress. She shrieked, giggling with raucous enjoyment of his roughhousing and landed on her rear. Appreciating the cushion breaking her fall, she scooted away as he joined her on the bed. Body extended, inching away with a smirking tease, Nate savored the spectacle and pursued. Prepared to pin her down and devour her again, he crawled over her body. But Hale pulled herself out from under him and stood on his bed. She stared down her naked frame, prideful of the positions this placed them. Wrestling continued, both taking turns to see who could sustain the position on top. But both sides competed with the same goal: Nate claiming more climaxes from the Huntress.

Sweaty bodies tangled, limbs locking, skin sliding against skin in sensual sparring. For nearly an hour, the vigorous couple collected positions in their lustful pursuits with interspersed interludes for cuddles, all building to a head with Hale on top. She sat on his face, trembling in the euphoric reaction of another orgasm. When she came down, recovering from the high Nate delivered, he rolled her over to her back. Nate’s hand pinned on one side of her upper body and his other cupped the lovely creature’s rear. Her arms reached behind her and slithered an inch from him, but Nate scooped up her buttocks, taking advantage of her nimble body and bringing her closer to him.

Both his hands surrounded her face as she laid beneath him. Kisses of adoration met her lips with ardor. His hard member slid against her folds, tickling her nerves and rubbing her ticklish bud. Taunting hips rolled, and he slid against her wetness again.

“You’re teasing me,” she imitated him, creasing her brow to give him a stern look.

“Am I?” He snickered and leaned back onto his knees, spreading them wider to bring him lower on the bed.

Following his plans, Hale adjusted her hips to him, her thighs laid over his. From her back, she studied him. His eyes wandered her upper body. He was thinking, and she relished in the attention of the stoic man’s calm gaze, cherishing his lack of reservation in this informal and intimate setting. The bond coursed through her, and a tingling sensation erupted from the base of her spine, traveled up her back, and over her head. Purring, Hale closed her eyes.

He observed the splendor of her unhurried bliss. _But what happens when we're done here?_ The question imposed upon pleasure. Their reunion, his proclamation of love, and day of heavy petting did not resolve the impermanence of their relationship. _She might not stay._ The young woman's promiscuous ways often equated sex and friendship. Coupling did not conclude her loving feelings stayed the same since Skyhold, nor did it confirm any commitment to the order.

“I love you, Nate,” Hale murmured, wiggling her rear against him.  The playful reminder of their goals returned Nate's attention to the Huntress and pacified his anxiety.

He made a breathy chuckle and placed a thankful kiss on her knee. Committing to resolve his other questions later, he returned all focus to Hale. Holding their gaze, intensity magnified by their connection, he guided his length to her. A gentle tapping of his shaft against her heat made her squirm, evoking her senses' memory of him. She gasped, widening her legs more, planting her feet on the bed behind him to appeal to his member.

Unrushed and steady, he slid himself inside. Her body relaxed with her hips raised, Hale paced her breaths; gaze locked with his until his length filled her. Then she closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation of him. Wet friction made for smooth transitions, acclimating to allow his length to glide in and out. And the nimble woman moved on her own. Organic rhythms gyrated her hips with him inside.

A hypnotic rotation, her body’s purposeful writhing. _I could watch this for hours._ He ceased thrusting from his knees so he could witness. His hands rested on her waist, thumbs massaging the tightening muscles of her midsection, engaging with each cycled gyration. He savored the experience of Hale, senses amplified by the perfect creature’s visual and tactile stimuli. Her slick heat enveloped the instrument on which she flowed, his member. Movement maintained, the Huntress’s sounds echoed the intensity of her rocking. Soft, absent-minded moans advanced to gasping whimpers and at the top of her motion, she stopped and mumbled his name. Legs quivering, back bending, her core held him as she came. Nate’s arms slid around her, supporting her frame as the enthralled moment ticked by until she finished.

He lifted her to him and a passionate kiss brought them together until she bit his lip and shoved him to the bed. Eyes closed, head tilted back, Hale's hips tirelessly glided herself on him. Hurried, rough, unlike her elegant gyrations a moment ago, and unashamed of the sweaty sheen forming, she thrust onto him. His rising appetite feasted on the view: Hale fondling her breasts with both hands, groaning each time her body directed his length to a point of arousal. The fire in his belly grew, sensations climbing with her stimulation. Spectating no longer served him; he wanted to make her come again. Nate's thumb found her sensitive bead, lightly rubbing the concentrated location. Her eyes shot open and fixated on him as his other hand gripped her hip, thumb massaging her pelvic bone while she moved. And as another quick climax came for the Huntress, Nate planned his next attack. He sat up, and an arm swung around her back. Intuitively, Hale wrapped her legs around him as he rolled her over and rose back onto his knees, the Huntress facing him again.

Heated bodies pressed as she straddled his lap and by instinct, her hands touched his face, satisfied to see him from the familiar perspective. Wanton kisses further joined the pair. Nate’s hand grazed her skin, inciting the tender nerves of the small of her back still blazing from her climax. Hale's steadfast and welcome swaying resumed, and Nate hummed, pleased with her intuition. Filling his palm with the cheek of her ass, he pulled her higher, closer to him, raising her up on his shaft and releasing his grip. She came back down, controlled, both mindful of her movement.

Moans muffled by kisses, each vibration of lips to lips inspired drive of the other person. Hale’s legs hugged him, gaining more traction and her rocking increased. Each time she landed bringing her higher into rapture, her body aching for more. Enchanted with her sounds, the feel of her clinging to him, her breasts pushed against him, and all besides to the euphoria of being inside her, Nate groaned. His building need slowed his blinks, delaying the gratitude of watching her in motion. Her eyebrows wrinkled in blissful distraction, she broke from their kiss, tilting her head back and breathing his name as she came. Her body convulsed on top of him, inner muscles clenching as her legs shook. The lengthy climax stretched and Nate kept moving, his vitality applied to maintain steady rhythm with her shaking body.

Recovering from her finish, she studied his features. Intense grey eyes, focused and resolute met her curious gaze between long blinks. He gave her a quick kiss, a sweet reminder of his affection and she blushed. The small act stirred emotion, a confirmation of love beyond carnal satisfaction. But wishing for his pleasure, she matched his motions, calling upon his finish. Lifting her buttocks tighter, he took her rolling hips and brought them down with vigor, holding her longer before picking her back up. On a downward motion, his head tucked into the crook of her neck and he muttered her name, his gruff timbre purring into her ear. He released, keeping her still as he came. His member throbbing as he expelled within her, the Huntress held Nate’s head as he finished.

Breathing together, they stayed connected. Hale’s head rested on Nate’s shoulder and he gave roaming kisses along the curve of her neck. Long moments ticked by until the pair rose and cleaned themselves in silence, returning to the bed in wordless unanimity. The grayish sky had worsened to an idle afternoon drizzle humming outside the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> extra thanks for [NormandyStarlight](http://archiveofourown.org/users/NormandyStarlight) for the mucking stables ref, so secondary thanks to Merlin lol. AND Special thanks to my betas [Eravalefantasy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Eravalefantasy) and [TurboNerd](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TurboNerd) for helping me through this fic so far and this chapter. Check out these writers' work!


	24. Secrets and Lies

Caoilainn woke beside Alistair with hope he had forgiven her, same as each morning since their argument. Attempts to communicate met with Alistair’s persistent and merciless cold shoulder, forced her shame to sink deeper. Even in his sleep, he withheld his warmth, keeping his back turned to her through the night. The emotional pit in her stomach, absorbed into the walls of her organs, and her body reacted. She couldn't eat, anxiety grew to nausea. The sight and smell of food made her stomach turn. Her mind raced with helpless worries, desperate to find a solution and redemption to Alistair’s disappointment. His silence encouraged fears to compound, branching off into webs of defeated and helpless conclusions.

 _I’ll never be enough._ Doubts of her worthiness to Alistair rang clear, exhibited in the blatant evidence of another mistake. Compared to Alistair’s perfection, boundless love in its purest form, hampered only by his obstinate loyalty, he would always surpass what she could offer him. Worse yet, the naïve and over-trusting, simple-minded young man she had left behind grew into a confident and independent King. He was flawless; even his vices, though few, existed in his expectations of others to reciprocate the fidelity he selflessly afforded.

The morning began as it had the last three days. Alistair woke, ignoring Caoilainn’s feeble attempt at a morning greeting and departed from their room. Loneliness settled, helplessness spurred fatigue and diminishing her willingness to confront him she donned her armor and went to the training yard. Orders given to troops, she did not join sparring, and instead stood to watch with half interest. The din of clanging metal rang through Caoilainn’s ears, reverberating between her temples and pounding against her skull worsened by the overcast sky building pressure against her temples. She removed her helmet; her thumb and middle finger rubbed against the patches of skin on either side of her forehead, but massaging her temples provided no relief. Giving an order to Adalyn to supervise training, Caoilainn supplied a meager explanation she needed rest

Without a plan, she returned to her office. Deep inhales soothed the dull headache, easing overwrought nerves. She realized the letter from Nathaniel still lay untouched on her desk. Unable to read it, the mere thought of the letter’s contents had made Caoilainn’s stomach lurch with anxious queasiness. She had avoided her office since their argument and now the parchment haunted her: simple paper with precise creases, benign by appearance with contents so destructive it had ceased her communication with Alistair for four straight days.

A few large steps brought her to the desk, and she picked up the letter to destroy it. No message from Nathaniel could have been so important for him to disregard her direction for Nate to write to Alistair. But concern consumed her, and she read it first. Her nerves lessened in intensity and her eyes watered as they scanned the page. _Alistair didn’t read it._

The door to their hallway clicked, and she heard Alistair’s steps taking him to their room.

“Alistair,” Caoilainn called from her office, “would you come here, please?”

Silence followed. No footsteps or reply, and for a moment she wondered if she imagined the sounds she had heard or if the source had not been Alistair. A housekeeper would have answered her. The delay felt an eternity, waiting to discover if Alistair could relinquish his resentment long enough to listen. A moment later, his footsteps resumed, growing louder as they came closer to her door. Caoilainn bit her thumb as her heart leapt into her throat; she swallowed to calm jittery nerves.

He stood in the doorway, staring at Caoilainn. She studied his defensive stance with admiration, longing for recovery from this fight. A king stood staring, apt to his role and responsibilities and in pain from her impropriety. His eyes glanced at the paper in her hand and he bunched his lips, unhappy with what he witnessed. His shoulders lifted to question, but he did not speak.

“Did you read all of it?” She asked, lifting the parchment.

Alistair’s eyes narrowed, his response waited. Choosing his words to convey his embittered anger, he spoke slowly, “I read enough to find you’d been lying. That was all I needed to know.”

Caoilainn gave a frustrated sigh, restraining from rolling her eyes at him. She raised her empty palm toward him in a sign of humility. “Alistair, you can stay angry with me as long as you need. I’m not going anywhere and I’m not giving up again.” She looked at the paper and lifted it toward him. “But you should read the rest of this.”

Glancing at the paper, Alistair’s jaw clenched. Despite all the secrets and lies, and his deep opposition to Caoilainn’s current suggestion, the intrinsic desire to trust her succeeded. _Damn it, Caoilainn._ He blamed her for that too. Torn between resolution and justified animosity, he tapped his foot twice, and Caoilainn walked closer, lifting the paper toward him. Alistair snatched the paper from her hand with a huff and rolled his eyes to read it.

_Caoilainn,_

_I would not ask your husband for relationship advice._

Alistair glanced at Caoilainn. She stood watching him, biting her thumb as he read; her other arm wrapped around waist. He recognized her worry, and in this circumstance, it annoyed him. Rather than argue with nothing useful to say, he returned to the paper.

_I never understood what drew you to him, and even less the appeal of commitment._

Alistair’s face contorted, disgusted with the words he read. The paper came to his side, and he scoffed, “Really? I don’t want to read this, Caoilainn.” He extended his arm toward her so she could take the letter. The preposterousness of him reading a letter to Caoilainn from Nathaniel insulted him.

She circled her hand and shook her head, trying to ease his displeasure with the contents. “He’s an ass but keep reading.” Alistair exhaled; his nostrils flared, and he rolled his eyes back to the paper.

_That has changed. I’m sorry for my part in what happened. When I thought you had died, I realized my guilt. I was not a good friend to you by engaging and I’m sorry for the damage I imagine it did between you. Though my apologies to both of you mean little now and I doubt he would hear it from me, I understand now why you left the Wardens to be with him. I would have done the same for Hale._

Alistair blinked and reread the first paragraph. Vague language captured a precise apology, avoiding potential for an interceptor to uncover secrets of the royal couple. But rather than settle old grudges, Nathaniel’s attempted amends made Alistair’s head dizzy, reminding him of the years of infidelity his wife committed. Conflicting feelings crashed and rather than reacting, Alistair gritted his teeth and kept reading.

_Questions of my right, let alone ability to succeed you as Commander recur every day. Hale did not receive my letter well and has since fled the safety of Skyhold. Many Wardens are sick with nightmares that seem to deprive them of strength. The Orlesian Wardens have left Skyhold to search Weisshaupt and have apparently had similar afflictions. I’ve asked Philippa if she suspects a connection to your departure and she confirmed._

_Did any other mages help you besides Philippa? She won’t give me names, but I suspect she could use help. Forgive me for writing again; I will take my questions to the King upon your reply._

_Your friend,_

_Nathaniel_

Caoilainn watched as Alistair stared blankly at the paper. Twitching temporal muscles showed he clenched teeth. Caoilainn's brow wrinkled, unsure what to translate from the nonverbal sign of anger, she braved a question. “How can we help them?”

Closing his eyes, Alistair nodded. _She’s right._ No matter his grievance with Howe, any risk of Wardens suffering needed a solution. The potential connection to Alistair and Caoilainn’s cure confirmed the royal couple’s responsibility to the order. His anger put to the side for the time being, he steadied his breath, subduing the dizziness.

“We have to,” he said, frowning and walking to sit on Caoilainn’s daybed. The letter still in his hands hung toward the floor. “We can start by locating the other mages. Morrigan can’t be too hard to find, right?” A chuckle escaped him and Caoilainn’s shoulders relaxed, taking his lighter dialogue as forgiveness.

She sat next to him, her knee nearly touching his. “We’ll find a way. What about Fiona?”

Alistair recalled his last conversation with the former Grand Enchanter. The confident woman declined his gratitude and insisted she sought no favors. But the way she spoke, the sadness lingering in her words resonated with Alistair. “I’m sure she’ll help. She agreed to offer help if I asked for it.” His thoughts wandered; something he had forgotten to tell her amidst their trip home. “Did I tell you she told me ‘your father would be proud’? This, mind you, after she deceived me, saved you, and then helped cure us both. There’s something strange about that woman.”

An amused giggle at Alistair’s recollection, Caoilainn's own humorous memory occurred about Fiona. “You know it’s also strange, I found some documents about a cured Warden in the vault in the Market District since we've been back. The only confirmed record I found listed a Fiona, also a mage; about 32 years ago. She was sent to the Circle when the Joining wouldn’t work again.”

Furrowed brows creased Alistair’s forehead; he shook his head chuckling in disbelief. “No. You don’t think?” The idea the sad woman could have been a Warden baffled him. He made a mental note to do more research before contacting her.

“It’s highly unlikely,” Caoilainn’s head turned, quashing the plausibility of the idea. Frowning, Caoilainn voiced a fear. “If either mage is still with the Inquisition, we'll have a hard time reaching them.”

“Something else I forgot to tell you," he glanced to her, grinning. "Ferelden is officially surveying the Inquisition.” He described the meeting with Fereldan politicians and their plans to call for a council about the independent order in a year.

“You know I love it when you’re so… kingly.” Smirking, her tone lowered and her head dipped, but another sentimental thought distracted her from flirting. Her hand rested on his arm and her eyes traveled to the letter. “Thank you, Alistair, for helping.”

“Right," he muttered. His lips tightened; the uncomfortable subject had no clear path. “It’s like you said, just because we’re not bonded to the order doesn’t mean we aren’t Wardens.”

Anxious jumping in her stomach reminded her of the nausea she had been experiencing all morning. Days of worried questions finally neared resolution, freedom from the turmoil of Alistair’s silence. “Does this mean you forgive me?”

Alistair’s gaze moved to the paper dangling in his hand. His frown returned, jaw tightened, and he sighed. “I don’t know.”

The statement was true; conflicting feelings divided his rationale. Forgiveness was simple, but threatened to subject him to her deceit again. _I can’t keep doing this._ He didn't want to, repeating the same mistakes, painful patterns caused by secrets carried no appeal.

“What do you think about his letter?” The gentle question summoned his attention.

Alistair made a tired laugh and glanced up from the paper. “What do I think?” He wondered the question himself. The professional correspondence between Caoilainn and her replacement carried no romantic undertones. The man’s signature as her friend seemed genuine. “I think you expect me to let go of my anger and forgive you for writing back. Because clearly,” he chuckled again, a bitter bite echoed in the edges of his timbre as he held up the paper, “you were just as confused about what to do as I am now.”

She nodded along, a relieved smile pulling her lips as tears welled behind her eyes. His words gave hope, a sign of understanding and a chance for pardon. “Yes, Alistair. I-”

“But his apology comes far too little and far too late,” he interrupted. His eyes stung, and he folded the letter to occupy his hands, distracting him from the painful thoughts streaming through his mind. _It changes nothing._

“What are you saying?” Caoilainn’s face contorted with confusion. She slid away, giving space on the bed so she could turn to face him.

Four days spent distancing himself from the woman he loved tortured them both and made the truth of what he was about to tell her even more evident. “I’m saying no matter how hard I try, Caoilainn, I can’t forget about what happened. Maker knows I want to. It would be so much easier.”

“I know,” her voice softened along with her expression, soothing his fears and assuring her intent with patience. She validated his feelings, aware the conversation was no longer about the letter. “Alistair, I understand that. I’m not asking you to forget, but you can forgive me.”

“I want to. I really do.” Alistair sighed, his posture slouching as his words became tight, hurting apparent in each syllable. “But Caoilainn, I’m trying and then this happens.” He held up the folded letter, eyes fixed on the movement. “Everything inside of me wants to trust you, but I can’t.”

“But you can!” She reached for his hand holding the paper, trying to capture his gaze. “This was a mistake. An isolated incident because of whatever is going on with the Wardens. You can trust me.”

“And how am I supposed to believe you?” He stared at the wall ahead of him. Tears pooled, and he looked up to blink them away, laughing with bitter exasperation. “You want to know what’s worse? I know you don’t love him. Not like that. I can see it on the damn letter; I hear it in the way you talk about him.”

“Then see it, Alistair!” She smiled, desperate tears streaming down her cheeks. “Please, we’ll go back to the rules. We’ll keep trying for a baby.”

Color washed from her face, leaving a clammy pallor as she heard the gravity of her plea and the recent unique symptoms of her anxiety. She swallowed, bearing through Alistair’s pessimism. A chill swept over her body.

“We tried rules, and they didn’t work.” He shrugged, giving up his effort to hold Caoilainn to any expectation and resigning his optimism for children. “And come on, Caoilainn, it’s been what? Almost five months now since we’ve been cured? Three since your cycle returned? And still, nothing.”

Cynical questions stabbed, lacking the gentle warmth so pivotal to Alistair’s personality. Neither had dared lose hope for a baby, negative _what ifs_ received answers relying on time and fortitude. They each supported the other’s aspirations for parenthood.

“Three?” The number questioned with dazed confusion, she had lost track of time.

“Yes, three,” he growled, pushing off the bed to turn and face her. His arms crossed over his chest and his voice rose. “Maybe it’s time to admit it. What if we never have a baby?”

The question knocked the wind out of her. Dumbfounded, she stared at him. Pale cheeks, drained of color and wet with tears made the coldness she felt seep into her bones. Her hand gently pressed her belly. Ringing in her ears muffled her voice as she replied, “Alistair, I-"

_I'm pregnant._

Adding undeniable signs and symptoms, Caoilainn was certain. Joy hindered by hesitation, she gazed at him, stifled; the words couldn't pass her lips and seconds dragged in silence. Witnessing Alistair's teetering commitment, she did not wish to influence his decisions of love. Worry surfaced he might not believe her, their trust so hampered he would suspect the announcement a lie to compel his forgiveness. She shook her head, and sighed. _It's not the right time._

"I'm tired," she admitted a fraction of the truth. "I need to lie down."

"Damn it," Alistair whispered to himself. He had gone too far, his question pushing Caoilainn to detach, creating emotional distance from her original message. His tone softened and he uncrossed his arms, "I'm sorry. You know I didn't mean that. What were you going to say?"

"It's nothing," she blinked, a weak and inattentive smile pulling the corners of her lips. She appeased him, "We'll talk more later."

Alistair nodded, agreeing with her suggestion and left the room. _I need to think._


	25. Commitment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter but there is an epilogue on the way. I need to send serious thanks to my beta [Eravalefantasy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Eravalefantasy) for her help with this chapter too. I highly recommend her work!

Teeth nipping the skin of his pectoral muscle woke Nathaniel. He kept his eyes closed, a tiny grin tugging the corners of his lips.

“Ow,” he said, pretending injury from the bite. Hale’s snickering confirmed the culprit, still resting in his bed. Her naked body sprawled on his; her body heat complementing his own. Sleepy eyes fluttered open to find the woman grinning at him, her chin resting on her hands pressed against his chest. The sporadic flicker of nearly spent candlelight cast out from the lantern on his desk filling the dark room with long, evening shadows.

Tucking her hair behind her ear, he met her eyes with quiet admiration, appreciating that she hadn’t left before he woke. The pair had drifted in and out of sleep and dazed cuddling through the afternoon. Hale stared back, respecting the silence in the intimate moment, observing Nate’s features as his groggy thoughts sharpened. A subtle frown and distant eyes communicated contemplative worry. She waited for him to voice his concern.

“What happens now?” He asked.

Rolling onto her back, Hale stretched alongside him, yawning as she spoke. “What d’you want to happen?” Coming to lay on her side, she propped her elbow to support her head with her hand as she waited for his answer.

Nate rolled on his side to face her, he exhaled forming the appropriate words to answer her casual question. “I want you to stay with me.”

Rainfall echoed the statement as it sank in. Cheeks flushed, the distinct pounding of her heart suddenly vibrated in her chest. But a thought surfaced, pulling her attention, and causing a faint furrow in her forehead. “People probly heard us. What if they found out it was me?”

As she understood, her status as a junior Warden infringed upon Nathaniel’s credibility as Warden Commander. All too aware of his commitment to responsibility and certain a clandestine relationship with a defector would be equally frowned upon for the Commander, she did not wish to repeat the painful events of their previous liaisons.

“They already know about us.” His hand slid down her side as he smirked. “Most of them anyway. They all knew about Caoilainn too. In fact, the other scouts from our mission despised me so much for letting you go, they made me suffer for it. They’ll be glad to know you’re back, _my lady_.” He shrugged, looking away in amused thought. “That is if they don’t already.”

“So, I can be a Warden again?” Hale’s timid inquiry voiced insecurities, expecting consequences for deserting the order. Declarative words continued to flow, opposing any dispute before it started. “The Keep is my home. The Wardens and you, Nate, you’re my family. This’s where I’m suppose to be.” A defiant glare faced Nathaniel, ready to challenge any consequences.

The corners of his eyes wrinkled, smiling at her confession, understanding family and home as foreign concepts to the wayfaring orphan. The young woman’s vulnerability a rare occurrence, her frantic declarations resonated with his experience of the Grey Wardens. “Listen to me, Hale.” Nate’s even tone eased her sharp nerves. A hand found the back of her neck, keeping her gaze locked with his. “You never stopped being a Warden. Not in my eyes. This is where you belong if that’s what you choose.”

Hale’s fear faded, and her frown transformed to a wide grin. Another question arose, but it did not reduce her smile. “What if some bastards don’t like it?” Her fellow scout, Isenam, had expressed disapproval of Hale’s closeness with Nate on multiple occasions.  

Nathaniel shook his head to brush away the question. “If they have strong enough opinions against me being with you, they’ll report me to the First Warden. If the First Warden doesn’t like it, I will be ordered to leave.” His expression remained neutral, unreactive to the information he provided.

“But where would you go?” The inquiry mumbled with intrigue.

“I haven’t thought that far ahead,” he admitted, smiling at the young woman’s thoughtful question. “But I suppose I will figure that out if it happens.”

“I’d go with you,” she said, barely more than a whisper. Her gaze engaged. “Nate, I’d fucking follow you anywhere.”

The twinkle in her eyes as she announced her commitment warmed him. But the declaration contradicted the young woman’s open views toward relationships, an aspect of their reunion he had pondered. Unsure how to broach the exclusivity of their relationship, he instead informed Hale of the illness impacting Wardens, including Damia, and inquired about Hale’s dreams.

With questions answered and immediate worries resolved, they realized mutual and tangible hunger unrelated to libido after the day's events. The smell of hot food permeated from the kitchen downstairs. With more discussion, they agreed on a plan for Nate to fetch plates of food for them while Hale went to check on Damia in the infirmary, meeting back in Nate’s room to dine together before Hale rejoined her comrades the next day.

Much to Nate’s surprise, incessant questions about Caoilainn or insults from the scouts did not impede his quest. Fewer in number with many still in the infirmary, the Wardens appeared content. To Nate’s surprise, most of the scouts gave him a cheerful wave from where they congregated at a dinner table. Nate chuckled to himself and rolled his eyes, certain news of Hale’s return had already circulated. But as he ventured to the kitchen, a confused Gunnar approached.

“Uh, Commander,” Gunnar muttered, his brow twisting with puzzled humor. “Someone’s arrived a few minutes ago asking for you. I brought him a towel so he could dry off by the fireplace and rest in the common area. I told him you were busy until morning... he uh, he winked, sir, and said he would wait.”

Nate cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the nameless man's response to Nate's unavailability. The Commander kept walking while Gunnar strode alongside. “Did he say what he wanted? His name, even?”

The pair neared the mess hall and Nate grabbed two plates. Gunnar chuckled; baffled by the information he was delivering. “He has information for you about Weisshaupt. It’s Garrett Hawke, sir.”

***

Appetite abandoned, Nathaniel remembered the mention of Garrett Hawke in Alanna’s letter as we walked to the common room, but news of the notorious man arriving at Vigil’s Keep came as a surprise, particularly when the Champion was supposed to be in Weisshaupt. The man stood drenched at the fire pit in the common area, his back turned and his hands stretched over the heat, a damp towel around his neck. Water dripped from his coat, a small puddle forming on the floor beneath him.

“Garrett Hawke?” Nathaniel voiced to the man’s back as he walked into the common area, noticing the mage’s staff resting on the wall nearby.

The man’s head tilted over his shoulder, palms not moving from their place over the fire pit. “That is my name, but you can call me Garrett… or Hawke.” He returned his gaze to the flames, the crackling fire filling in the silence as Nate walked beside him. Wet, messy hair and unkempt beard covered his face, the infamous red stripe over his nose. Before Nate could say more the mage side-eyed the Commander and kept talking, “It’s good to see you’re awake,”

Irritated by the subtle hints of humor underlying Hawke’s tone, Nate spoke lowly to suggest their conversation not be overheard. “What did you find at Weisshaupt?”

Hawke pursed his lips in a frown and looked down his wet gambeson. “I've just traveled from Skyhold to Weisshaupt to Amaranthine. Offer me a drink before you interrogate me.”

“Right,” Nate sighed, staying his concerns and focusing on his guest. “Of course. I’ll send for a meal and dry clothes. We can talk more in my office.”

“Don't forget the drink.” Hawke winked as Nate turned his back.

Grateful the mage missed his eye roll, Nate led Hawke up the stairs to the Warden Commander's office giving an order to a junior Warden to fetch the needed items for Garrett at the top of the stairs.

Nathaniel followed behind Hawke into the room at the end of the hallway, remembering the disheveled state of his room after the day’s events with Hale only after entering. His bed unmade, blankets strewn from the mattress to the floor, a crooked painting hung on the wall near the bookshelf, filled with rows of leaning books; a lone book splayed on the floor in front. Trying to ignore the amused look on Hawke’s face, Nate rushed to his desk, desperately organizing the messy pile of papers littered across it, and picking up those that had fallen to the floor around the workspace. He gathered a bottle of liquor and two short glasses from a nearby cabinet and passed them over the desk to Hawke as Nate kept cleaning.

“Looks like you need this more than I do,” Hawke snickered, pouring himself a glass of the golden-brown liquid and sitting down across from Nate’s work area. The Commander ignored the comment, not investing in the man's annoying commentary.

“S’this about?” A familiar voice inquired from the doorway as Nate gathered a ledger from the floor. His eyes spotted boots and followed the view up the long legs of the Huntress.

 _Shit._ Before Nathaniel could explain the arrival of another person to his office to Hawke, or the guest’s appearance to Hale, the mage made his own assumptions.

Staring at Hale, a wide grin spread over Hawke's face. He turned to look at Nate. “I think I like your idea of ‘busy,' Commander.”

“The fuck d’you think-” Hale took a large step into the room, her nose wrinkling, lip curling; temper ignited by the stranger's unwelcome glances and innuendo.

“Hale,” Nate’s firm voice interrupted, his eyes sharpening on the young woman, “this is Garrett Hawke. Garrett Hawke, this is my…” He fumbled to find a way to best explain their relationship and her appearance in his room, “companion.” _Companion?_ _Come on, Nate,_ he chastised himself for the choice of words.

Lengthy steps carried Hale to Nate’s bed but she stopped mid-stride when Nathaniel introduced her. She stared at him with narrowed eyes and mouthed _‘companion?’_ with irritation. Nathaniel shrugged in response, having found no better word to describe her to the guest.

“Companion?” Hawke glanced from Nathaniel to Hale, who sat cross-legged on Nate’s bed. “Yes, I've got one of those. At least one, actually.” His lifted brow and small smirk remained as his eyes glazed, recalling memories.

 _Stop wasting my time._ Nate interjected again, this time talking to Hale on the other side Hawke. “Hale, Garrett has just come from Weisshaupt. He was going to tell us what he found there.”

A knock at the door announced another junior Warden with a large platter of food. Dry clothes hung over the Warden’s shoulder. Directing Hawke to an empty room to change, Nathaniel set the food down on his desk and spotted Hale staring wide-eyed at the platter. The young woman licked her lips and Nate nodded for her to take what she wanted before Hawke returned. She sauntered to the food and selected the largest leg of meat, a piece of fruit, and tucked a bread roll under her chin.

“Huntress,” Nathaniel spoke to her back as she climbed onto his bed to sit cross-legged. She glanced up with a cocked brow in time to see Nate throwing a dining cloth to her, a not so subtle hint for her to keep the food off his bed. With nothing but a smirk, she chewed off a piece of the bread roll and set it down on her knee.

Watching her eat made his mouth water, reminding Nate of the hunger pains stabbing inside his stomach. He made a generous plate for himself and Hawke returned to the room in dry clothes. In order to be polite, Nate waited on eating until Hawke joined him.

Hale wolfed down her meal on Nate’s bed while Nathaniel ate at his desk. The guest, Garrett Hawke sat between them, closing his eyes as he chewed, apparently appreciative of the food. Questions riddled Nate’s mind, wondering what news the man brought and eager for their meals to be done. But he remained silent out of respect, waiting for the mage to finish his meal before inquiring. After emptying his plate, Nate poured more of the golden liquor into two glasses and brought one to Hale. She took the glass and glanced at the contents, barely more than a few gulps if she drank it quickly.

Amused in his observance of Hale’s confusion, he smiled and explained, “It’s for sipping.”

She sighed and slouched her shoulders, rolling her eyes at Nate. After scooting back to the headboard, she took a small sip of the drink and cradled the small glass in her hands and muttered, “shite on all the fun.”

“No. She’s definitely on to something. Drunk business meetings are much more entertaining,” Hawke snickered, witnessing the dynamic between them and speaking to Hale as Nate returned to this chair. Hawke's gaze wandered Hale's body and he arched a brow. "The three of us can keep _busy_ all night."

"Oi!" Offended at the newcomers overzealous flirting, she barked at Hawke. "Keep sodding staring at me and I'll put a few more marks on that ugly mug of yers."

Nate cleared his throat mid-motion of sitting down, trying to draw their attention to him. Close to his last nerve with Hawke’s snark, but desperate to hear whatever information he carried, Nate attempted to smile.

But the other two paid him no mind. Hawke smirked and continued taunting. "Worth it. I like it rough and maybe you're due for a new," Hawke glanced at Nate. "What did you call it? - Companion. You can join too, Commander. Two's company, three's a party, I always say."

"Mother fucker!" Hale yelled, chugging the rest of her drink before leaping from the bed. She took large steps toward Hawke, screaming obscenities not noticing Nathaniel standing to intervene. "Shut yer bastard mouth, areshole... fucking whoreson. Stop smiling! Uglier than druffalo bollocks, you are. Manky fuck. Wouldn't plough you if my life depended on it. I said don't fucking look at me!"

Smirk intact, Hawke rose from his chair as the Huntress lunged at him. Weight leaning on one foot, she clenched her teeth, tightening her fist. Hawke stood over the young woman, amused with the elf's rage.

 _He's teasing her,_ Nate realized, uncertain if Hawke understood Hale's willingness to throw punches in anger. _"_ Enough!" Nathaniel yelled, rushing around his desk to stop them. He stood between, his hands keeping Hale away. With a regretful glance to her, his tone lowered. "Hale, I'm sorry. I need you to leave."

"Fuck's sake, Nate." Gritting her teeth, she huffed and lifted her arms toward Hawke. "He's a daft cunt! Send _him_ away!"

 _I wish I could._ "I can't," Nathaniel admitted. Though his patience with the guest waned, the Warden Commander still needed to hear whatever information Hawke brought with him. He recognized Hawke would continue to taunt Hale as long as she stayed. "I need to have this meeting, Hale. We'll talk more later."

Pouting, Hale's glare intensified, now at Nate. "This is bollocks! You're still a prat, Nate." Her glare traveled back to Hawke, she pointed at him from around Nathaniel. "And you're a poxy wanker." She stormed from the room, slamming the door behind her. The echo reverberated through the room until Hawke spoke up.

"A classy lady you've got there." Sitting back down in his chair, Hawke took a casual sip of his drink. "My kind of crazy. Funny story: that's not the first time I've been called a poxy wanker."

Nate stared at the doorway, concerned about the quarrel disrupting his reconciliation with Hale. "Somehow I don't find that hard to believe," Nate glanced at Hawke with his reply before finding his seat again behind his desk. "If you insult her again, I promise you will regret it.”

"Calm down, Commander Howe. I was just having a bit of fun. It's not my fault your _companion_ is so hot-headed." Hawke looked over the lid of his glass as he took another sip.

"Stop," Nathaniel's scratchy voice spoke low and clear. "Hale can land a punch better than most men I know and I'm not going to stop her the next time you piss her off. You are lucky it takes more to make me lose my temper. So, Garrett Hawke, if you're done having fun, please tell me what you found."

Hawke rolled his eyes, grinning. "I'm never done having fun, but fine." The mage took another sip of his drink and lifted it to Nate with a nod. "Nothing, I found nothing.”

Pausing, brow furrowed, Nate stared at the mage. He tried to suspend his frustration, certain he must have missed the punchline of a joke. “So, you’ve come all the way from the Anderfels to tell me nothing?”

“Exactly.” Hawke’s eyes scanned Nate’s reaction as he explained. “I thought you would want to know Weisshaupt is deserted.”

Heavy silence filled the room and Nate's mouth dropped open, not processing what Hawke said. The man only took another sip of his drink.

"You're lying." Rooted in hope, Nathaniel blurted the accusation. A deserted Weisshaupt would explain the lack of communication, but it suggested a much larger problem than he anticipated. Having witness Hawke's nature to tease, Nathaniel wanted to disclaim the report. "Tell me the truth."

“I don’t know how else to say it, Warden Commander. There wasn’t anyone there.” Leaning forward, Hawke shirked his shoulders again, his head shaking as he minimized Nathaniel’s disbelief.

"I don't believe you." Sifting through papers, Nathaniel shook his head, ready to dismiss the guest out of frustration with the unhelpful news he brought. He felt his anger boiling, taunted by the mage just as Hawke had done to Hale. "I'm not here to play games, Hawke."

"Trust me. You'd know if I was playing a game. I mean what I said and I have proof." Hawke pulled a paper out of his pouch and dropped it on Nate's workspace. "I found it in the stronghold. It was already open."

"And how do I know you didn't make this up?" Glaring at Hawke and ignoring the letter, Nathaniel noticed his desperation to deny Hawke's story. It made too much sense, the possibility too real. But Hawke's cocky delivery of devastating information irked the Warden Commander. "We're done here. This meeting is over and you should leave. Now."

"Fine. Don't believe me." Standing from his chair, Hawke tapped on the folded letter resting on Nate's desk. "But read this. I'll be in Denerim for the next few days if you need me, Commander."

Not responding, Nathaniel stared at the paper as Hawke departed from the office. Filled with dread, Nathaniel studied the familiar Grey Warden symbol. A similar letterhead visible in the parchment's parted creases. A broken seal, the letter had met its recipient and had since been abandoned. The desire to ignore the letter, throw it away or burn it, removing its contents from existence pulled at him, opposing the need to know what it said in connection to the mage's claim.

He took a deep breath and opened it. Reading, and rereading multiple times. His heart grew heavy. The letter gave more questions than answers and Nate knew only one person could help him. Sitting back down at his desk, he took out a blank piece of parchment and dabbed his quill with ink in preparation to draft a much needed letter. He trusted the words to flow when the nib touched the paper.

_Your Majesty,_

_I am afraid I am in need of your assistance._


	26. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Questions beget questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to [Eravalefantasy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Eravalefantasy/pseuds/Eravalefantasy) for helping me with making these last two chapters MUCH more intense. Your ideas are invaluable.

"Your Majesty!" A healer rushed into the armory, interrupting Alistair's solo sword practice. The King ignored the intrusion. Guarding the side of his head with his elbow, he followed through with the swing, wrapping the short sword around to strike the side of an invisible opponent. When he was done, he turned to the woman. The healer wrung her hands, face wrinkling with worry. "It's the Queen. She's ill, I know it, but she won't let me into her room."

"I appreciate your concern, Isla." He rested the tip of the blade to the ground, both hands covering the pommel. "But she's a grown woman. If she doesn't want help from a healer, you can't make her take it."

"But you can, your Majesty," Isla said, pressing her palms together and extending them to Alistair. "Please, I worry for her." Lines of distress drew across the woman's face, sparking Alistair's confusion.

Alistair grinned, leaning off the sword and returning the sword to its stand. "You worry for everyone. But why are you so concerned for Caoilainn all of the sudden?"

"Didn't you know? She fainted on the training field this morning," Isla explained, surprised at Alistair's minimizing. "She's not been sleeping well and she's eating less. Something's keeping her up at night."

With his arms crossed, Alistair observed the woman's fretful report, still unconvinced of his need to intervene. A rare symptom of Caoilainn's anxiety, news of her fainting wrought unease but it did not surprise him.

Alistair had noticed Caoilainn's change in behavior. Waking before he rose, she avoided him in the morning, spending longer in the washroom than usual. Though she occupied much of her free time in her room lying down, dark circles under eyes suggested lack of sleep. She delegated responsibilities on the field, spending less time with the army. Despite her exhaustion, the tenacious Queen remained cordial and accommodating to Alistair, not revisiting the argument for three straight days. It provoked Alistair's suspicion. He knew when Caoilainn kept a secret. _I will not chase her anymore._

"Thank you for your candidness, Isla." Ripostes to Isla's worry compiled, but none were appropriate for the healer's ears. _Caoilainn can come to me whenever she wants._ Knowing the stubborn reply would expose the difficulty in his marriage, Alistair opted to end the conversation. Long strides took him from the armory to wash up before dinner.

He suspected guilt gnawed at Caoilainn and it infuriated him. _It’s something about Nathaniel,_ he concluded. Requiring her to reveal whatever she was hiding, he reciprocated her superficial geniality and calmed the urge to reignite the argument from the week prior. It fumed within him, harsh words and hopeless confessions all escalating the longer he waited for her to admit whatever she hid.

After washing, he donned clean clothes. Uninterested in decorum, a clean tunic and breeches sufficed. He did not wait for her at dinner and did not initiate conversation when she eventually joined, sitting adjacent to him at the head of the long table as he ate. The pointed sounds of silverware against their plates echoed through their silence. Candlelight sputtered, the flame burning on a misshapen wick.

Alistair had nearly finished eating when Caoilainn mumbled, “Their defense has improved.” Her gaze followed her fork as she pushed around food on her filled plate.

“Right. That wasn’t vague or anything,” Alistair snorted, taking a bite.

“Sorry,” she sighed, placing the fork down. “Your army. They’ve improved communication on the field. They had a skirmish yesterday.”

 _Typical._ Dinner reduced to perfunctory conversation, avoided eye contact, and quiet stretches reverberating awkward tension. Worse yet, Alistair saw her pain. Hurt by whatever she withheld, he wanted to alleviate her sorrow. A promise that everything would be fine, no matter the secret she harbored. But it was a promise he could not offer in deference to his hurting. Years of repressed resentment no longer denied had risen to the surface. It left him raw and aching.

Alistair gave a disinterested nod, humming in agreement. "That's good." As Caoilainn's report resonated, Alistair’s forehead creased, frustration winning over his stubborn avoidance. He looked to her. "But what of _your_ defense and communication, Caoilainn? Care to tell me what happened on the field today?"

Shoulders slumping, eyes closed, Caoilainn sighed and shook her head. "It was nothing. I was a fool for not drinking enough water." She met his gaze; the pale blue stare filled with sadness as her hand reached across the corner of the table and squeezed his. Curious confusion made Alistair's brows twitch, but he did not reply. With a weak smile, she added, “I need to rest now . . . I love you.”

Tactful aversion from anything resembling conflict or meaningful conversation, Caoilainn scooted her chair from the table and headed toward the grand hall.

 _What aren't you telling me?_ Self-righteous anger melded with his worry. He needed answers. "Damn it, Caoilainn," Alistair muttered aloud, getting up to follow her.

From the direction Caoilainn fled, a messenger approached Alistair, interrupting the King's pursuit. The messenger bowed and greeted the King as Alistair watched Caoilainn disappear up the stairway. _Damn._ Alistair sighed, and took the letter from the courier with distracted thanks before dismissing him. After a passing glance at the letter, Alistair took a step toward the stairs, determined to obtain some explanation from his wife. But the image of the pressed seal on the parchment registered in his mind. Griffons. The Grey Wardens. He looked at the parchment in his hand, addressed to him. Glancing toward the stairs, his resolve to demand answers vanished; he made sure Caoilainn did not linger. Apprehensive of the contents, he walked from the stairway, opening the letter. A safe distance away, he stood in the foyer to read.

_Your Majesty,_

_I am afraid I am in need of your assistance. More accurately, the Grey Wardens are in need of your assistance. I received a visit from the Champion of Kirkwall, Garrett Hawke, who departed Skyhold with the Orlesian Wardens to Weisshaupt. The Warden base has been silent and we did not know why._

_According to Hawke, the Wardens are gone and some correspondence found at the base suggests they experienced the same malady as Fereldan and Orlesian Wardens. Wardens are falling to some condition, a draining weakness. We can't identify a pattern but the sorceress Philippa has connected it to your Majesties' departure. I need to know the names of the other mages who aided you. I am certain they are the only ones who can provide a solution to this illness._

_It means nothing and it is long overdue, but I regret my part in what happened. Yet, regardless of our history, your Majesty, it seems you are as involved in this current struggle as the rest of the order. By the time this letter reaches you, the Champion will be in Denerim. I am certain he carries more information than he disclosed with me. If it is more suitable, I am willing to come to you to convene with yourself and the mages._

_Respectfully,_

_Warden Commander Howe_

**To be continued...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please. Please. Please!!! I'd love to know what you think! Even if you haven't left any comments so far, please let me know what you thought of this fic.
> 
> I am planning a sequel to this one, obviously. But it will go in such a different direction, it wouldn't fit right as one fic with Bond of the Grey. If you want to find out what happens, stay subscribed to this fic (I will post a link to the new fic as a new chapter when it starts)- and/ or you can follow the Mother of Griffons series on AO3, and/ or follow me as a user.
> 
> I am going to take a little bit of a break to do more reading/ gameplay before I start writing the next MoG story. I am also casually working on the Wardens of Ferelden MC fic (a modern AU).
> 
> I'd like to thank [Eravalefantasy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Eravalefantasy/pseuds/Eravalefantasy) again. She has given me so much insight and ideas and help with my writing. Please, please, check out her work! Also, my number one boo [TurboNerd](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TurboNerd) is an amazing friend who has helped with betaing quite a few chapters- especially the sexy bits. She's a very talented writer, as well. I highly encourage checking out her work.


	27. Fate of the Order

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Finale!

Check out the prologue for the final story in the Mother of Griffons series: [Fate of the Order](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11096439/chapters/24757449) 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Fox and the Wolf](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13246317) by [Nymeria_Snow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymeria_Snow/pseuds/Nymeria_Snow)




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